


Intricate Ritual Magic

by macrosoft



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Constant Miscommunication, Excessive Drinking, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gay Panic, Humor, Idiots in Love, Oral Sex, Repressed Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Spells & Enchantments, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:54:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29383053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macrosoft/pseuds/macrosoft
Summary: Even Dean will admit it: he’s done something stupid this time.Gabriel is glowering from inside the ring of holy fire. He would look more intimidating without the confetti scattered over his shoulders and in his hair, but nonetheless Dean thinks he maybe shouldn’t have pulled this stunt alone. But Sam and Cas got stuck in a church with about sixty innocent people, surrounded by like thirty rabid flesh-eating creeps, so it’s up to him now.“Look asshat,” Dean starts intelligently. “You’re gonna give me the skull stick. And you wanna know why? ‘Cause I’m the one outside the circle. And circle takes the square. Staff. Thing.” He shakes his head.Gabriel looks pissed, but also bored, which for Dean’s sake is better than just pissed. “The vajra,” he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, “I have, it’s kind of a…personal item.”“Gross, dude, TMI.”Gabriel sneers, “It’s mine.”“Yeah, and I need it,” Dean reasons. “You can have it after, we just need to ice a few Hindu demons first. Unless you want the blood of a whole town in New Mexico on your hands?”Gabriel opens his mouth but Dean snaps, “Don’t answer that.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, Gabriel/Kali (Supernatural)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Season 8-ish AU. Cas has limited abilities and sleeps. Gabriel never died. Eileen is there for some reason. 
> 
> I cannot believe I wrote Destiel fanfic in the year 2021. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

Even Dean will admit it: he’s done something stupid this time.

Gabriel is glowering from inside the ring of holy fire. He would look more intimidating without the confetti scattered over his shoulders and in his hair, but nonetheless Dean thinks he maybe shouldn’t have pulled this stunt alone. But Sam and Cas got stuck in a church with about sixty innocent people, surrounded by like thirty rabid flesh-eating creeps, so it’s up to him now.

“Look asshat,” Dean starts intelligently. “You’re gonna give me the skull stick. And you wanna know why? ‘Cause I’m the one outside the circle. And circle takes the square. Staff. Thing.” He shakes his head.

Gabriel looks pissed, but also bored, which for Dean’s sake is better than just pissed. “The _vajra_ ,” he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, “I have, it’s kind of a…personal item.”  
  
“Gross, dude, TMI.”

Gabriel sneers, “It’s _mine_.”

“Yeah, and I need it,” Dean reasons. “You can have it after, we just need to ice a few Hindu demons first. Unless you _want_ the blood of a whole town in New Mexico on your hands?”

Gabriel opens his mouth but Dean snaps, “Don’t answer that.”

“Why don’t you just let me out of here and I’ll go get it for you.” Gabriel gives his best this-is-a-good-idea face. “Better yet, I’ll go kill the sons-of-bitches myself.”

“Why don’t _you_ tell me where _it_ is, and _maybe_ I’ll let you out. Eventually.” Dean starts backing towards the door of the abandoned warehouse. “I got other sources.”

“Yeah, right. Like you’d leave me here.” Gabriel’s laugh drips with venom. He looks around the room and asks, “Where’re the other amigos?”

“Busy.”

“Busy?” Gabriel arches an eyebrow, unbelieving.

“Didn’t need ‘em,” Dean shrugs like a real asshole.

Gabriel chews on this a moment, before narrowing his eyes with fury and resolution. Dean gulps, imagining he’s going to regret this in the future.

But Gabriel relents. He just says, “Fine,” keeping his face as blank as possible. Still a glint in his eye and a slight tug at the corner of his mouth makes Dean nervous. He knows this is too easy. But there are innocent people, a whole town of them, waiting to be eaten as they speak. So he does what he does best: he overcompensates. He gives Gabriel his biggest shit-eating grin to date. 

\--

A bright golden light pours from the orb on the ornate weapon and into the congregation of rakshasa outside the church. Dean holds it out from his body while glancing back at Sam and Cas with a satisfied grin. He shouts, “You seeing this shit?!” but it’s swallowed in the roar of wind. The spirits’ bodies combust and leave nothing but a faint wisp of dissipating smoke.

Before the crowd of townsfolk behind them can even start murmuring in relief, Gabriel appears. He snatches the weapon from Dean, narrows his eyes with a scowl, then an alarming smirk, and disappears again. Sam and Cas exchange a worried look, but Dean just shrugs as if to say, _What’s up his ass?_

“How were there so many of them?” Sam asks as the church empties of people. “I thought—lore says they only come around every fifty years.”  
  
“I dunno man, maybe a queen laid a bunch of eggs at the same time or something, xenomorph style,” Dean suggests.

“Xenomorph?” Cas asks. Dean just rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Is that…”

“It’s from a movie,” Sam explains when Dean walks ahead like he’s too cool for them both.

\--

Days later, Dean’s making himself lunch in the bunker kitchen when he realizes Sam and Cas have been dubiously absent all day. Lately, Sam and Cas’s nerd-dom has taken on a reckless streak, and Dean has control issues, so he wanders around looking for them. Out of curiosity, if anyone asks.

Sam’s door is closed, but Dean stops a moment. His brother’s voice is muffled, but he picks out, “What about Peru? Machu Picchu?” Then, a woman’s voice floats, “What about Kyoto?”

Dean rolls his eyes dramatically to no one. Sam must be Skyping with Eileen again and fantasizing about traveling like honeymooners and probably painting his nails and braiding his hair, too. He wanders down the hall to the library, where Cas is reading a paperback novel. 

Dean meanders in, sandwich and plate in hand, and sits down in the chair right next to him without saying a word. Cas looks up around the table at all the other empty chairs and says nothing.

\--

While performing a locating spell on a particularly nasty witch, Dean slices his palm and pours his blood into a bowl.

“If this works—” Cas starts.

“ _When_ this works,” Dean corrects, glaring at him.

“This will be useful for twenty-four hours, after that, it’s just a paper map again.”

“Yeah got it. Marauder’s Map, one day only,” he says, holding his hand out to Cas for healing. Sam makes a face at Dean, who replies in kind. “We only need it for like ten minutes anyway. We locate this bitch and take her head off, no problem.”

Cas leaves an inch of space between their palms as usual. And then, for seemingly no reason at all, Dean can’t help but close it. His heart starts skipping. His eyes are roving the room, embarrassed. Mercifully, Sam is busy tapping away on his phone. But Cas notices the heat of his flat hand, then the blush crawling up Dean’s neck—confusingly—and says nothing.

When Dean’s palm is healed, their hands drop to their sides, both flexing subconsciously.

\--

The witch crushes her fingers into Dean’s neck and tosses him across the room like a Frisbee. He groans and rolls for a moment, which is all Cas needs. He materializes right next to the hundred-year-old hag and slams his hand onto her forehead, forcing blue light into her skull and out through every hole in her ugly head. Her corpse drops to the floor.

“Are you alright?” Cas asks, dusting off his coat as he walks over to where Dean is still laying on the ground. Dean points to his torso and winces. Wordlessly, Cas waves his hand over Dean’s broken rib. Blue light shifts his bones into place and his pulse spikes again. 

Dean lets out a breathy laugh. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” he jokes, as if that makes sense, and then shakes his head. Cas blinks a few times and offers his hand for leverage, which Dean takes, muttering thank you, and pulls himself up.

He only realizes after they have started walking away that he’s still holding Cas’s hand. And Cas is just...letting him. He stops short, and the abruptness causes Cas to let go, but Dean holds his fingers closed around the limp palm for two more seconds before releasing and pulling away, perplexed.

“That was weird,” Dean laughs, trying to diffuse the tension.

Cas only wrinkles his brow and says “Hmm,” as an acknowledgment.

Dean hasn’t registered that he’s been gravitating into Cas’s space, slapping a hand on his shoulder or play punching his arms—way more than he does with Sam or ever did before. He safely buries that all under the blanket justification that he’s just a little under socialized. But the hand holding thing was...

He just needs to go out and hone his skills, touch some women or whatever it is straight guys think.

He goes to a bar. He strikes out but not for trying. 

\--

Dean stumbles into Cas’s room, which is a thing he has because he lives there.

They get into a fight about something stupid, neither understanding why or what they’re really mad about. Dean’s drunk and a little belligerent, so he starts pushing Cas by the shoulders, who stands static and sharp.

“I told you, it was research. Why are you fighting me?”

Dean watches the wrinkles form in Cas’s nose as he squints.

“You’ve had too much to drink.”

“I’m not drunk,” he slurs, steadying himself by holding onto Cas’s lapels. Cas tilts his head and searches over Deans face, desperate to understand why he keeps getting so close. Dean has assured him multiple times he doesn’t “swing that way” so it can’t be…That. And yet, here he is (again), drunk fists in Cas’s coat, face flush and full of intensity, just...right there. Like he’s waiting. For…something.

Cas pushes Dean back, knocking his arms away.

“Predictable,” is all Cas has to mutter to knife into Dean. Dean steps forward again and Cas overpowers him, pushes him three steps back and up against a wall.

Dean does not recognize being turned on by this. He sublimates the energy into rage as usual and takes a swing. Cas absorbs the punch and shoves Dean in the chest again, bouncing him slightly off the wall, with a grunt. Dean takes another swing but Cas dodges it entirely and Dean loses his balance, crashing into the side table on his way to the floor. 

“Blergh,” he croaks, lurching.

Cas rolls his eyes and huffs. He offers his hand, assuming the embarrassment of falling drunk would take the fight out of him. But he slaps Cas away, sitting up and rubbing his jaw. A bead of blood blooms and trickles down from the center of his bottom lip.

“You’re bleeding,” is all Cas says before he leans down, stills him with one hand on his shoulder, and hovers two fingers over his mouth. They light with grace and Dean, eyes swimming, leans forward until they press his lips. It is only a moment but his eyes flutter closed.

Cas looks at him with wonder and confusion. Dean opens his eyes, jerks his head back, and flushes red. They stare at each other for a minute, breathing, trying to read one another. 

_That was weird_ , Dean thinks, but doesn’t say this time.

Cas slowly offers his hand and Dean takes it, levering himself up. He very purposefully makes sure he does not keep holding it. 

\--

Dean’s already pouring himself the good whiskey when Cas pops up behind him. Probably to try to passive aggressively induce a chick flick moment about whatever the hell that was, Dean thinks. But Cas just grabs a decanter of gin and drinks it straight from the bottle. Dean studies the wide angles of his face, tipped back and gulping. He takes a swig himself and locks the thought away in a box in the back of his mind. 

“You can’t just—just cause you and Sam have some—some book club,” Dean sputters lowly, “you don’t just go and do a book report with a—a goddamn god, ok, Cas?”

When Cas refuses to concede that summoning a Hindu god (while Dean was on a grocery run) to get historical context for a novel that he and Sam were reading together like little geeks was maybe perhaps a bit careless, Dean points a finger at Cas and shouts, “You’re impossible!”

Cas responds by jabbing his finger right into Deans chest, almost menacingly. “Yeah well you’re… _predictable_.” It’s not even relevant at this point but it’s true and he knows it’ll set Dean off.

Dean swallows thickly, glancing down at the contact. He stills. Cas stills. Dean looks back up to Cas’s face, his eyes glinting with brazen determination. “Oh yeah?”

He’s very drunk now. Very. That must be why he does it. He has every intention of coming up with a witty retort, rolling his eyes, backing away. Maybe even punching him again. But what he actually does is close his eyes, lean in and—despite Cas’s sharp and nearly inaudible gasp—kiss him right on the lips. 

He means to say something like, “How’s _this_ for predictable!” with a big grin. It’s obvious that’s where he’s going with this, right? But when he pulls back, both of them wear matching bewildered expressions.

Cas says, “You...” and Dean says, “I...” and Cas says, “You just...you kissed…me.” It starts out as a question but ends as a statement of fact. There’s no denying it. Dean takes a step back, grasps the counter behind him to steady himself.

He stammers, “I...I don’t—“

“Why did you—” Cas starts, full of disbelief, a hint of suspicion, but Dean, eyes wide and face burning hot, interrupts, “I don’t know! I didn’t—I didn’t mean to!” He stares at the bottle of whiskey still in his hand like a traitor.

“What?” Cas asks, then quieter, almost under his breath, “What is going on?”

Dean literally sprints out of the room. 


	2. Chapter 2

He avoids Cas for days.

Then Gabriel pops in on Dean in the laundry room, making him spill soap on the floor in shock.   
  
“You guys love to do that, don’t you,” Dean growls, gripping the washing machine door.

Gabriel winks with that same pompous smirk. “It’s not always on purpose but it’s a delight every time.”

“So, what do you want?”

“What?” He holds his arms out. “Can’t a guy visit his favorite former angelic weapon of heaven?”

“I’m not your favorite anything,” Dean barks. “How’d you get in here? _Why_ are you here?”

“Just checking in,” Gabriel shrugs coyly, starting to tinker with objects on the shelf. “Seeing how my spell is working.”  
  
“Spell?” Dean arches his eyebrow, exasperated.

“You didn’t think you could just make demands of me and get away with it, did you?” Gabriel folds his arms and turns to regard Dean. “You think you can just do whatever you want? Well, then, bucko, so can I. And I,” he leers, “want to do quite a lot.”

Dean grimaces. “Yugh. So what then? What did you do? Cause nothing’s been going on here.”

“Oh, _really_?” Gabriel waggles his eyebrows, pervily. “Not even when Cassie gives you a big sip of the blue juice?”

“What are you talking about?” Dean doesn’t put it together.

“You get a little tight in the nethers when he fixes your boo boos? You craving his grace yet?” Gabriel’s grin falters as Dean still seems annoyingly, but characteristically, clueless. Then he makes the connection. 

“Oh, what!” Dean is utterly disgusted. He waves the detergent bottle around, not caring if he spills more. “You sick—fuck! You’re a sick son of a bitch.”

It occurs to him that the…thing in the kitchen can be explained by Gabriel’s sick prank, so at least there’s that.

“So, what, you like to play Barbie and Ken with people? That’s what you do in your free time? Make the human dolls kiss?”

Gabriel does a double take. “Huh?”

“You think it’s funny to make dudes kiss? Is this like…a weird homophobe thing?” Dean stammers, confused by Gabriel’s confusion. “You get your—your rocks off on it?”

“ _What_?” Gabriel guffaws. “Did you—Did—You _kissed_ him?”

Dean sputters, glaring, unable to come up with a single thing to say as Gabriel floods with laughter, his knees buckling as he has to hold himself up on a dryer.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Dean roars, but can only slam the washing machine closed and wait for him to collect himself.

“The spell…it just…it just—” is all Gabriel manages between laughing contractions.

“Spit it out, man!”

“It just redirects blood...when grace touches you.” He wipes tears from his eyes. “I don’t know _what_ you’ve been doing after that.”

“ _It what_?!” Dean’s voice lowers an octave.

“A woody! Pops you a stiffy,” he guffaws again.

“WHAT?” Dean drops the detergent bottle which thankfully lands right-side up but still manages to send a geyser of soap into the air and then all over itself. “That hasn’t even—You sure you did the spell right, asshat?”

“I don’t do spells wrong,” he says, a little too assured for Dean’s taste. “It just has a bit of an…incubation period.”  
  
“Why?!” Dean imagines walking out of the bunker and never looking back. “Why.”

Dean pictures twisting the smarmy asshole’s head off like a bottle cap. He lunges for Gabriel who just flies to the other side of the room, then straightens with gravity, his eyes pointed.

“’Cause you need to be humbled, _Dean_. You’ve been resurrected too many times. You’re _cocky._ You make demands of beings you have no business even looking at. You need to be reminded you’re a human.” Gabriel puffs his chest. “And I’m an archangel. That means: Don’t. Mess. With me.”

“Reverse the fucking spell, Gabriel,” Dean snarls.

“Before it even works? Yeah, right.” Gabriel’s eyes are glittering. Then, he’s gone.

“Son of a _bitch!_ ” Dean slams the washing machine door a few more times for good measure. He wonders if this will finally, actually be enough to teach him to quit messing with Gabriel for good, but he doubts it.

\--

Cas has accepted that they will not address What Happened. He understands, in some way, it was meant to be a joke. He doesn’t understand why Dean didn’t laugh, and then scrambled out of the room like a cockroach in sudden light, but there’s a lot Cas doesn’t understand about Dean’s behavior—or any human’s, for that matter.

And Dean can clam up all he wants, but that doesn’t stop the monsters from biting, so eventually they must hunt anyway, awkwardness hanging around him like a stink cloud.

He does his best to avoid injury, to the point that he’s all but useless. Usually he’s all for taking charge, especially when it comes to vampires. But Cas smites the shit out of a whole nest while Dean observes darkly from across the warehouse, gun raised but untrained. He is filled with adrenaline and some other restless thing.

Cas materializes next to him, reaches up to heal the cuts over his temple and cheek, but Dean jerks away and takes a step back. Cas searches his face and asks too sincerely, “Do you feel unworthy of being healed?”

Dean rolls his eyes dramatically and snaps, “Jeez, no man, I can take a few cuts, I’m not a little girl.” He regrets it immediately.

Cas rolls his eyes right back. “Even little girls deserve to be healed, Dean.”

Hoping the spell still hasn’t reached its full power yet, Dean waffles, chewing his lip. One of the cuts is deep enough for stitches, and, not to be vain, but it’s on his face. The only one he has. So he lets out a puff of air and mutters, “Fine, fine. Just do it.”

Cas reaches over, his fingers hovering an inch from his cheek. Now that Dean _knows_ there’s a spell at work, he thinks he can resist leaning his cheek against Cas’s palm. So why do his eyes flicker closed as his skin makes contact anyway?

He opens and fixes his eyes on Cas’s, notes to himself three different shades of blue. He determinedly _doesn’t_ nuzzle into his tingling hand, _doesn’t_ let a single sound escape the back of his throat. Doesn’t look away.

Cas pulls his hand back and Dean is immediately aware of the spell’s full effectiveness. 

\--

Back at the bunker, Dean locks himself in his room and starts whisper screaming for Gabriel. He appears after a minute wearing a toga. The skin that shows is shiny with oil, which makes Dean gag just a little bit, but he’s in no mood to address it.

“Fix it, _now,_ ” he growls with an amount of wrath that would make any human flinch. But Gabriel is not human. That’s his whole point with all of this.

“Fine, fine.” He produces a small velvet pouch from the folds of his toga. Dean doesn’t want to think about where it’s been. It combusts into a small blue flame, quickly incinerates to ash that Gabriel wipes away between his hands. “There. But just so we’re clear, this is for my brother, _not you._ He wasn’t supposed to be involved. I just wanted _you_ to be embarrassed. I mean, intricate rituals much? You think Cassie’s wound tight, you should see yourself when another beefcake gets too close.”

Dean makes a face.

“You should live a little,” Gabriel wiggles his eyebrows.

Dean knows that denying it too much will just prove his point, so instead he rolls his eyes and says, “Fuck off.” Gabriel fucks off and Dean grabs the flask by his bed.

\--

Cas is keeping his face as blank as he can, but Dean can tell he’s upset. “So the…touching. That was...”

“A spell. Yeah.”

“And the—”

“Yeah. Well. I mean—” Dean is unsure if he wants to clarify that the spell technically had nothing to do with drunkenly kissing Cas so that he would shut up about whatever it was they were fighting about. He considered not telling him about the spell at all, but after the unbearably awkward ride home earlier, Cas was asking too many questions. “Well it wasn’t...that was...it was the grace that—”

Apparently taking after Dean, Cas deals with his feelings like a man. Which is to say he converts all negative emotions into rage and then directs that rage outward. In this case it is justified, but the amount of fury and malice in his voice when he growls “Gabriel...” startles Dean. 

Cas stalks off and Dean follows him to a storage room where he starts shuffling through bottles. “What are you doing, man?” 

“I’m going to trap Gabriel…and kill his…head off,” Cas mutters, not looking up as he searches the shelves. Dean grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around.

“Don’t. Man, just…I _just_ got rid of the bastard. Don’t go calling him back here, okay?”  
  
“Gabriel shouldn’t…” Cas seethes, eyes narrow and pointed. Dean hasn’t seen him this incensed in a long time. “It’s so…Gabriel can’t—It’s very ‘Gabriel,’ isn’t it,” he waves his arms around the room, “I’m tired of it. I’m tired of Gabriel’s particular brand of meddling…”

He’s said his name too many times.

Gabriel appears wearing a bathrobe, still proud of himself but looking apologetic. Dean suddenly wonders how much he knows, what he hears around the bunker.

“He wasn’t supposed to do anything.” He directs all his attention to Cas and holds up three fingers. “Scouts honor. He’s so repressed, I thought—I just wanted to make Dean-o squirm in his jeans a little.”

Cas opens his mouth to yell, but stops himself short. “What?”

“Just a little spell to give him a chub anytime he gets the ole grace fingers.” He waggles his eyebrows and his fingers at the same time. “He started it when he trapped me in holy fire, okay? Besides, it barely even worked, and it was strictly boner patrol only.” His voice turns unexpectedly sincere. “I didn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to. And it’s done now anyway, so, don’t worry, I broke the spell. Now if you don’t mind,” he turns to wink at Dean, “I have an orgy in Rome to return to.”

Cas narrows his eyes and glances at Dean, who is glaring at Gabriel, and then at the empty space where Gabriel was. He shifts his weight, says, “Um...yeah,” with too much ferocity.

Cas somehow squints even harder, canting his head. Dean looks at the ground.

“So it wasn’t—Well it’s—Okay. It’s...over...now. Right?”

Dean nods and leaves the room immediately, fast walking back to his bedroom. Cas stays behind, considering the jug of holy oil still in his hands and not really seeing it at all.

\--

That night Dean dreams. He’s fighting with Cas in his room again, his back against the wall. Cas is shaking him, holding him by both shoulders. Deans arms are filled with sand. He tries to lift them, to punch Cas in the ribs. But he just grabs his waist and holds there for a second. Then Cas punches him square in the jaw, knocking his vision to a blur. It doesn’t hurt, but Dean touches a finger to his face and pulls back blood.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says softly. Deans embarrassed by his earnestness.

Cas lifts two fingers to Dean’s mouth, presses them to his lips. Dean closes his eyes and sighs without hesitation. He lets the grace flow in and around his mouth. Tastes it. Cas’s breath catches when Dean parts his lips just enough to take in the tips of his fingers. He tentatively licks across the pads. Cas goes stock still. Dean opens his eyes slowly, lids heavy, gold lashes catching in the light. He looks deep into Cas’s eyes and thinks _please_ with urgency. Thinks _it’s okay_. 

A dark look passes over Cas’s face and he slides his fingers into Dean’s mouth. Deans eyes fall closed again with the movement, and he sucks gently, lolling his tongue around. The rest of Cas’s fingers come down to grip Dean by his healed jaw, while the other hand presses firmly into his chest, pinning him to the wall. When he opens his eyes again, Cas is breathing heavily, staring at his fingers disappearing into the hot softness of Dean’s mouth with an intensity that reminds him of the first night they met.

Dean startles awake and wonders if Gabriel lied about reversing the spell, but he probably needs more evidence before he can start blaming all his unconscious gay thoughts on him. And dreams are just the brain’s way of processing what it’s taken in, right? Just little stories that are invented randomly like pulling on a slot machine. So all this funny Gabriel business gave him an unintended wet dream about his dorky angel friend, so what?

He ignores his hard on and stifles all thoughts before getting out of bed.

\--

Things get mostly back to normal for a few weeks, until Christmas.

They’ve technically decorated parts of the bunker. Sam insisted on a tree in the library, but then a week before Christmas, he invited Eileen over and they spent the whole week in his room with the door locked. Dean feels a little put out and drinks about it. He didn’t use to care about holidays, especially not this one, but he keeps remembering bad Christmas after bad Christmas in moldy motels. He doesn’t recognize that he’s feeling lonely or that he desires anything at all until Cas roams in. 

He’s given Dean plenty of space, maybe feeling awkward, and Dean has silently been exasperated by it. He would like everything to go back to how it was before this whole Gabriel mess.

He tells Cas, “I’m not even sure why Sam wanted the tree. He used to hate this bullshit. It’s not like we grew up having one.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly why he would want it,” Cas opines. “Tradition isn’t just about what you did. It’s what _people_ did. What people _do_.”

Dean shrugs. “People do a lot of shit. You know, one year, we had to ice two pagan gods with their own tree.”

Cas nods, pauses. Then he starts, “One year, there was a family stranded in the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. They had a cabin, and enough beans and bread to last them a few days, but nothing else. The snow was three feet high. And I watched the father trudge through it to cut down a tree with only a hunting knife. Because it was Christmas.” Cas sips his drink. “It took him an hour.”

“Sounds like a waste of energy,” Dean chuckles.

Cas shakes his head. “He needed it. His kids needed it. It was their first Christmas since he returned from the Civil War.”

Cas doesn’t tell Dean that they died there, within the week. Dean just nods, remembering Cas is older than Earth and has seen more than he can ever comprehend. “So, what, you like Christmas?”

Cas bobbles his head to the sides, considering, but doesn’t respond.

“You got a favorite holiday?”  
  
Cas shakes his head, silent, lips moving for a moment. 

“What?” Dean prods, “What is it...like Kwanzaa of ‘87 or…Arbor Day in 1812…or something?”

Cas arches an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I have a favorite. Human holidays are...” He trails off.

“Bastards?” Dean offers, slurring. He drinks the rest of glass and refills. Cas chuckles, sipping his own drink, his face lit with gold and blue by twinkle lights in the tree. He shrugs, looks at Dean with a sort of playful shyness.

“I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable,” he says after a moment. Dean swallows hard, not understanding where this could possibly be going.

“Holidays are...a lot of them are celebrations of human survival. When it comes down to it. And in a universe that is, apparently, apathetic to their existence. Mostly. Present company excluded,” he almost smirks. “But I rarely felt my survival was...It wasn’t until after I fell...” he looks away, sips again, “that I could feel anything close to...to human. But then, after having died multiple times, if anything it made it all feel...inapplicable again. To me.”

He pauses, considering something. “So I guess if I’m celebrating anything—anyone’s survival...it’s yours.”

Cas raises his glass sort of meekly. Dean clears his throat, shakes his head, assessing.

“Huh,” he says, stupidly. “I have died, though. Like a lot.”

“Didn’t stick,” Cas nods.

Dean tinks his glass against Cas’s. “Well then. To surviving.”

\--

Dean realizes when he goes to pour another that he’s drained the bottle. “Uh oh,” he says under his breath as he stands. He leaves and comes back with another, tearing the plastic wrapper off with his teeth. Cas watches the plastic flutter to the floor silently, his mouth suddenly dry, and he finishes his glass, waits for Dean to refill.

Dean stumbles a bit when he leans over, his hand steadying on the back of Cas’s chair. He giggles like a little girl, realizing how drunk he is, and stares for a moment at the back of Cas’s neck. Then he wanders over to the tree, staring at the lights and tinsel instead. He considers Cas’s time as a human, grateful that he’s no longer so vulnerable, that he can heal them and blip off whenever and all that, but sad that he’s something so…untouchable again. He purposefully does not think about touching Cas. He does not think about the weird kiss they shared, how Cas didn’t pull away even a little bit.

He and Cas stare at each other from across the room for several moments. Dean looks back at the tree. “I guess it’s nice,” he says more to himself, “these decorations. But he didn’t even…”

Dean has the sudden, unmistakable appearance of a man, blackout drunk, with an idea. He holds up a finger and runs to a storage room, comes back with a handful of crafting supplies. Dean starts wrapping pipe cleaners around in loops. Cas looks on, amused and curious. He’s had a few glasses of whiskey, which has just warmed his cheeks, but Dean’s been drinking since the afternoon, and he only has the tolerance of a human. A functioning alcoholic human, sure, but even so.

Dean holds up the curious object and says, “Ta da!” as if Cas should understand what this bizarre contraption means. Dean cackles at Cas’s furrowed brow and leans over, placing the makeshift headband on Cas’s head, a pipe cleaner halo bouncing softly over his hair.

“No wait, it’s not…standing.” He wrestles with the wire with both hands. He’s in front of Cas, elbows bumping on his shoulders, as he fidgets with the thing in his hair. Cas watches his face intently, his eyes catching on Dean’s mouth where his tongue pops out to pull his lip in to bite, as Dean firmly concentrates on the task at hand and not looking down into Cas’s eyes. “There,” he says finally, dropping one hand to Cas’s shoulder, the other gesturing to the tree. “Now we have an angel for the tree.”

Cas only barely comprehends what Dean’s drunken idea even is. “I guess I should climb up there,” Cas huffs, thinking the tension is about to dissipate. But Dean laughs harder than the joke warrants, his fingers digging into Cas for balance, and then slurs with hardly-repressed excitement, “I’d like to see that.”

Cas huffs again, “You’ve had quite a bit, huh.”

“’Tis the season,” he grins, grabbing the bottle and taking one more long drag.

Cas watches his lips press around the mouth of the bottle. Dean can feel him watching. He hands the bottle to Cas, as if that’s what he wanted, who hesitates only a moment before taking a long drag himself. The halo tilts slightly and Dean goes to adjust it. His fingers trail over Cas’s hair and he doesn’t realize he says the word “soft” out loud, under his breath.

His eyes are swimming. It’s very late. The box in the back of his mind is vibrating, threatening. Cas opens his mouth but says nothing, then bites his bottom lip. Dean breathes, searching Cas’s eyes, smiling but unsure.

Then it happens again.

He murmurs something like “angel” before leaning over and kissing him. The lights on the tree flicker and explode. Dean lets out a bark of laughter into Cas’s mouth before losing his balance and then his consciousness, falling forward. Cas catches him, standing motionless for a moment in the blackened room with his heart racing against the heavy weight of Dean in his arms.

Dean wakes in his bed, more hungover than he’s been in years. He can’t piece together what happened last night, but doesn’t know to care. He only remembers talking briefly with Cas about international holidays. In the library, any evidence of string lights have been disappeared, but neither Dean nor Sam notice.


	3. Chapter 3

Cas starts acting weird around him. Well, weirder.

While Dean is cooking in the kitchen, Cas blips in so close his coat brushes Dean’s arm. He eyes the sizzling burgers with a concentration that makes Dean arch an eyebrow. He opens his mouth to say “personal space, Cas,” but stands there frozen when Cas looks up at him, eyes wide and firm. Then Cas blips away.

He does it again when Dean’s watching a movie. One minute, Dean’s blissfully watching _The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly_ by himself, the next, there’s a man sitting cross-legged, facing him, on the other end of the couch, watching him watch the screen.

“If you wanna watch a movie with me,” Dean says without tearing his gaze from the shootout he’s seen a million times, “you gotta watch _it_ , not _me_.” Cas slowly turns his head towards the screen and observes a long series of close ups on men’s faces, intercut with their hands twitching for their guns.

The subtext escapes both of them. Cas disappears again.

Later, Dean’s brushing his teeth while Sam bores him with historical data about whatever book he and Cas are reading now. Sam leans on the doorframe, says, “The town that the author is from is the same one that, get this, a medieval Russian witch is rumored to have lived. Well, confirmed to have lived, by Kali. So I looked up how many people lived there—”

Dean wants to address the Kali thing again but suddenly Cas appears by his side, trench coat swishing against his jeans. Cas squints as Dean straightens and looks into the middle distance, then at him in the mirror, the thrusting of his toothbrush slowly coming to a halt like a train.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says around a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Hello Dean,” Cas nods casually, as if he’s not blatantly staring at the toothbrush still perched inside Dean’s mouth, from what feels like inches away.

Dean intends to say something about personal space again. This is where he says, _We talked about this._ But instead he narrows his eyes and, experimentally, almost imperceptibly, pushes the toothbrush slowly towards his back teeth. Cas blinks rapidly and blips away.

Sam, who is still there, says something to Dean along the lines of, “What did you do to him?”

Dean doesn’t remember. He thought everything was cool after The Gabriel Thing. Not that he told Sam about any of that.

\--

Later, after a surprise run in with a ghost they were hunting, the trio heads to a motel to regroup. Cas heals both of them, hovering his hand over Sam’s sliced shoulder absently, and then gently touching his fingers to Dean’s scraped forearm with great concentration. Dean realizes with relief that he doesn’t get a boner, but his mouth feels cottony anyway.

Sam doesn’t notice any of this, just passes out in his motel bed. Dean asks Cas something case related as he pulls his shirt over his head to change, but Cas just stares at him.

“Is everything alright, man? You’ve been…” he trails off, gesturing his hand to finish the sentence.

“I’m fine,” Cas finally looks away.

“Are you sure? I feel like things have been off, since…” Dean realizes he doesn’t want to bring up The Gabriel Thing at all. Cas gives him a strange look, waiting for him to finish. But Dean can’t. He just waits for Cas to offer something.

They sit there for a moment, Dean in the doorway of the bathroom, Cas sitting at the kitchenette table. Sam lets out a loud snore to let everyone know he’s still there, unfortunately. Cas looks away again and says, “I’m fine,” and then disappears.

“Cas!” Dean whispers, “Cas, wait!”

But he doesn’t return.

“Good talk,” he says to the dark room, then showers the day off and goes to sleep.

\--

He dreams again about a fight with Cas transforming into…something else. In the morning he blames it again on needing to get laid, by a woman obviously. He commits to flirting hard with every woman he comes across, including Joan, the waitress in her 50s that has no idea how desperate Dean is, that she would actually have a chance if she wanted.

Sam is grossed out by Dean’s persistence while trying to work the case. But Dean mocks him and mutters about Eileen and dry spells.

Cas appears suddenly in the booth, his thigh pressing against Dean’s. Dean surveys the diner with owl eyes, “Man, you gotta stop doing that. What if someone sees you?” Cas gives him an exasperated look and Sam shrugs. They exchange important information about the case that Dean doesn’t hear, as he focuses instead on the heat of his coffee mug and not the warmth and pressure of Cas’s body pushing him into the wall of the too-small booth. He chugs his coffee without thinking, for something to do with his hands.

Joan returns with breakfast platters, and Dean smiles at her. “Anything for you?” She asks Cas, but he shakes his head. Dean holds up his empty mug and, with round puppy eyes, purrs, “Could I get a little more coffee, sweetheart?” Outside of her eyeline, Sam silently gags. She grins and goes to retrieve the coffee pot.

Cas says flatly, “I’ll meet you back at the bunker.”

Dean doesn’t know why he reaches out and grabs Cas by the wrist, whispers, “Wait.” Cas looks at Dean’s hand wrapped around his arm. He drops it when Joan returns to top his coffee off, sharing another smile with him before going to the kitchen again.

“Why?” Cas asks at the same time Dean starts, “You should like…go to the bathroom or something.”

Sam and Cas both give him a puzzled look. “I just mean to like disappear if you’re gonna just pop in and out of existence!” He sighs, “I don’t want to freak out the locals before we even figure out what’s going on here.”

Sam shrugs uselessly and returns to the files he’s been reviewing.

Cas considers it a moment and stands up, agreeing apparently. He heads to the bathroom. Dean also stands, says, “I’m gonna whiz,” for some reason to Sam, who doesn’t care. As soon as the door closes behind both of them, Cas freezes for a second, realizing Dean has followed him. He cants his head, eyes narrowed with incomprehension.

“Do you…need something?”

Dean shakes his head, staring at Cas in the mirror. He does not even register the subconscious desire to get Cas alone, if only for a second, to make sure he’s okay. That _they’re_ okay.

“I’ll…uh,” Cas says, unsure. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, something heavy dropping from his throat into his stomach. Cas disappears again.

\--

They finish the hunt and return to the bunker at night. Sam fucks off because this story isn’t about him. Dean finds Cas surrounded by empty liquor bottles and big dusty books, sitting on the floor in the library.

He stands there, assessing the situation for a moment, before clearing his throat, making Cas jump and swivel his head up. His eyes are glassy and red.

“What’s going on, man?” Dean asks, almost whispering, as he folds his arms and leans against a shelf of books. “Is this another…bender?”

A smirk passes over Cas’s lips as he recalls the first time he ever went on “a bender,” how abandoned he was. How he used to believe. And how Dean couldn’t console him, but tried anyway. In his own way. Cas realizes he thinks of that time, before the not-apocalypse, as someone else’s story.

“Some days you get to kill a whore,” Cas laughs as he slurs, then shrugs, “some days you don’t.”

Dean doesn’t understand. Cas isn’t sure he wants him to. He looks back at the book in his lap, fiddles with the brittle page. They are silent for a minute.

“I thought…it would go away,” Cas says eventually. “I thought I would…process it all and let it go but it’s just still…there. And mostly I don’t even—it just comes back sometimes.”

Dean pads closer, feeling responsible for a reason he can’t name. If not for the emotions, then just the coping mechanism. He’s really gotta stop drinking his feelings. But he doesn’t know how so he just lets the guilt settle in his chest.

“What does?” he asks quietly.

Cas gestures around and knocks over an empty bottle in the process. “Oh,” he says, and crumples a little. Dean stops the rolling glass with his foot and offers his hand.

“Come on,” he says, “I don’t know what this is, but you need to sleep it off.”  
  
“Angels don’t sleep,” Cas says reflexively, staring doubtfully at the hand before him.

“Yeah, well…you’re kind of something else now, aren’t you?” Dean offers, shaking his hand in emphasis. “Not quite angel. Mutated angel. Ex-ex-angel. There a word for that?”

“No,” he mumbles, “though there is—but that’s not—I wasn’t…born this way—”  
  
“Okay, Lady Gaga,” Dean smirks as Cas finally takes his hand and allows himself to be dragged to his feet. He is unsteady, almost falling backwards, so Dean holds on a little tighter. “You got it?”

Cas looks down at their hands, then rolls his eyes and lets go. “I don’t _got_ anything,” he mutters after a beat.

“You got me,” Dean says nonchalantly before he can think to stop himself. He gives Cas a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and is a little taken aback by Cas’s scowl.

“I’ve got…I’ve got…” Cas trails off, looking at the mess of bottles.

“What, Cas?” Dean asks. Cas looks back at him. They are close enough that Dean’s eyes track back and forth between his. A thin strip of light lay across them, the blues shifting from deep to light.

“Have you ever…” Cas chokes the sentence off and looks down again. There’s a long pause before he shakes his head, and, as if starting an entirely different question, asks, “Have you ever listened to…Solange?”

Dean narrows in confusion, lets out a small laugh. “The hell you talking about, man?”

“Solange,” Cas slurs, “She’s…a singer. She’s Beyonce’s…her…”   
  
“I know who she is,” Dean tries but can’t hide the amusement. “I’m surprised you do.”

When Cas doesn’t continue the thought, he mutters, “Man, you are wasted huh. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” He puts his hand on Cas’s shoulder to guide him away from the pile of bottles and books.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you,” Cas mutters just loud enough for Dean to hear. “I’d…I’d like that,” he says quieter, with earnestness, as if talking about something else entirely.

Dean doesn’t address it. He pitches Cas’s hand over his own shoulder, palms his upper back and pushes, just enough, so that Cas starts walking with him. He wonders if Cas has ever been drunk in a good way, not just when he can’t stand to look at whatever elephant is in the room. A vague memory surfaces of the night Cas did a whole row of vodka shots, before Jo and Ellen—before they—

They reach Cas’s room and Dean lowers him on the bed as gently as he can. Cas closes his eyes for a minute before pushing back on his elbows, staring at his own body in the bed.

“I don’t want…” Cas’s head swims. Dean towers over him, by his side, waiting for him to finish. “Sometimes I don’t want to feel those metal clouds.” He has the tiniest lilt in his voice, so that Dean understands it’s a song.

He shakes his head and turns to leave, but Cas’s hand slaps around the air until he reaches Dean’s wrist. He tugs, and Dean turns back, as Cas motions him to come close. He does. Cas licks his lips and stutters, “Thank…Thank you. For…” He waves his hand around the room. Dean waits.

“For…for…” His hand is still on Dean’s wrist, firm.

“Of course,” Dean says, finally, not knowing what for.

Cas relaxes a bit, head still bobbling around. He looks back up at Dean, who smiles warmly. Cas considers all the features of his face: his hair askew, his freckles faint but present, the lines around his eyes, the contour of his nose, the stubble crowding around his—

“You don’t even know,” Cas drops his wrist and looks away.

“Don’t know what?” Dean asks, suddenly a little serious. Cas shakes his head and lays all the way down, closing his eyes. “Don’t know what, Cas?”

“Your…face,” he grumbles. Dean can’t tell if it’s a sort of your-mom joke. Does Cas even knows what a your-mom joke is?

“I know my face,” Dean chuckles. “I see it all the time.”  
  
“No,” Cas’s eyes are still closed, “I do.”

Dean is laughing soundlessly but has no idea what to say. The silence thickens around them. He’s about to turn to leave again when Cas says, “I don’t know how you do it. How you…just…feel…and turn it away. Turn it off.”

“I don’t—”  
  
“I know, I know,” he babbles, “Some days you get to kill a whore.”

“Why do you keep saying that? What is that?”

“No,” Cas smirks, “Your line is, ‘I don’t understand that reference.’”

“What?” Dean tilts his head, “It’s from a movie?”

“Might as well be,” Cas shrugs. Dean shakes his head and realizes Cas still has his shoes on.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he says, “You should take those off,” as he walks around the bed and grabs them by the heel, slipping them over the ball of Cas’s foot.

“ _You_ should take those off,” Cas slurs petulantly.

“You wish,” Dean says before he can think not to, not even sure what “those” is. He drops the shoes by the door on his way out.

Cas feels the pressure in the room loosen and is ready to lay there all night pretending he’s still an angel of the lord that has no emotions and no need for rest, but Dean comes back with two bottles of water. He places one on the night stand, says, “This is for the morning,” and twists the cap off the other, “and this is for right now.” He holds it out to Cas, who watches him without moving a muscle.

“Come on man, it’ll help.”  
  
Cas relents, rubbernecking as he pushes up on his elbow and takes the bottle, downing half of it. “Thank you for taking care of me,” Cas blurts, eyes closed. He sets the bottle on the table.  
  
“It’s nothing man. I owe you. You take care of me all the time.”

“I have supernatural powers,” Cas dismisses him, “You’re a human man.”  
  
“I’ve got powers,” Dean scoffs, “I’ve got human man powers.”  
  
Cas opens one eye to regard him. Dean’s grinning like an idiot. “You’ve got a ‘winning personality,’” Cas weakly lifts his fingers to air quote.

“Yeah and it’s my best feature,” Dean shrugs.

“No, it’s not,” Cas falls back down, eyes closed again.

Dean can tell this is a path he shouldn’t go down. But he does anyway. “Oh yeah? What is?”

“Your eyes,” Cas bites, exasperated. “But sometimes…your…your…”

Dean stills entirely, his face and chest suddenly hot. He knows he’s good looking, and he has certain features that _he_ likes about his appearance, but he never thought about Cas looking at them. Assessing them. Cataloging them. _Admiring_. He becomes aware of his entire body, waiting for Cas to finish.

“Your mouth,” he says finally, the smallest of tugs at the corner of his lips.   
  
“My _mouth_?” Dean giggles incredulously. He tries to bury his laughter in his shoulder, turning away. He feels, unexpectedly, something in the back of his mind softly click.

“It’s…” he starts. Dean looks over Cas’s body in the bed, swimming in his suit and coat. Cas opens his eyes, looks up at him through the lashes, and for a beat Dean sees the face from his dreams, the one filled with dark intention. “ _Exquisite_.”

Then Cas’s eyes comically roll back into his head and the room is silent except for his steady breathing. Dean’s frozen, something between complete bewilderment and pride plastered on his face. He doesn’t know why his face is so hot, his adrenaline spiking like a ghost just tossed him across the room. He locks the comment away in the box and leaves Cas to finally sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Cas remembers, because of course he does. He’s not human, vulnerable to the memory loss, willful or not, that comes with excessive alcohol use. But he knows Dean will not address What He Said, the way he almost never addresses anything that happens until someone forces him to, or he drinks enough to let it spill out. Besides, it’s not like no one’s ever told Dean he’s attractive before. So what if this time it was his best friend of a decade while incredibly intoxicated? His best friend who is a nearly-immortal massive wavelength of light crammed into a male-gendered vessel…

Cas vows halfheartedly to never drink that much again. He lost count after 5 bottles of whatever liquor he could find, but he assumes he will have more feelings to bury in the future as he continues his life with the Winchesters.

It is late afternoon by the time he pads into the kitchen, opening cabinets in search of coffee. It is the one food item he knows both where it is stored and how to make it, and yet he keeps opening the wrong doors. 

“Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it out of your room today,” Dean chides from the doorway. Cas scowls, one hand cupping his forehead, the other blindly searching for the soft bag of grounds. 

“I’m not sure I have,” he says cryptically, finally pulling out what he needs. He sets the bag and filters on the counter and wills them to turn into a hot cup immediately. They don’t. 

Dean snickers and comes into the room, gathers the items and starts making the coffee himself. He is a little too pleased with himself, Cas thinks, but he can’t blame him. Instead he falls into a seat at the table and lays his forehead on the cool surface.

Dean leans against the counter as the coffee percolates, eyeing Cas’s hunched frame. Sam wanders in, drenched in sweat, and nods his head at Cas as if to ask Dean, “What’s up with him?” Dean makes a motion with his hand like he’s drinking from his thumb, pinky wiggling. Sam furrows his brow, but lets it go and shrugs.

“You go for a run?” Dean asks as Sam grabs a drink from the fridge.

“Huh? Oh, no, I was in the gym,” he says over his shoulder as he leaves.

“We have a gym?” Dean asks, incredulous, but Sam is gone already.

“It’s past the garage,” Cas croaks. 

“We have a garage?” Dean mugs, just to see Cas’s reaction. He pulls his head up with great effort to bore a hole into Dean’s face, eyes squinting without a hint of humor. Dean cringes, pulls at his collar, and mutters, “Tough crowd,” then fills a glass with water and sets it in front of Cas.

Cas stares at the glass for a long moment before grabbing it and chugging it so fast that it spills over his chin and down his collar. Dean observes the water trail down his neck to bloom dark on his crumpled collar. 

\--

Dean looks up the song but he doesn’t understand it at all. He doesn’t know what the metal clouds are, or what they have to do with birds. But he gets that it’s a sad sort of song about trying to get rid of something. He wonders what Cas is trying to get rid of, exactly. 

Then he suddenly remembers. The whore of Babylon. They had just come back from searching for God, or rather, from finding out God didn’t give a rat’s ass. About their mission or them at all. He remembers Cas’s face when he returned the necklace, and then Dean, out of hope entirely, dropped it in the trash. It was a lifetime ago, several. Then, Cas outside the motel, asking, “How do you stand it?” And Dean, understanding exactly the pit Cas was at the bottom of, offered, “Some days you get to kill a whore.”

It was nothing, a moment he’s had many of, with many people. He wonders how long Cas has run his mouth over words he’s tossed out without thinking. He doesn’t go over how much has changed since then, how many times they’ve put their faith in each other instead, or how many they let the other down.

He adds the song to his phone and searches for the gym on a whim.

\--

Nearby, men are killing their wives at an alarming rate. Evidence points to a siren, which for no reason at all makes Dean a little nervous. But cases have been sporadic recently, sometimes nothing for weeks, and he’s desperate to work out some frustration that he’s somehow still not aware is sexual. 

While Sam is elsewhere doing something nerdy or boring, Dean and Cas stakeout the bar that all five victims frequented.

“You know, the first siren I ever—” Dean starts, then stops himself. He never thought about it further—there wasn’t time. The whole apocalypse kind of got in the way. But he abruptly realizes that he didn’t even consider the implications. That it was a man. And that he was played like fiddle.

Cas glances back from his stare out the window at the bar door, arches his eyebrow at the silence.

“It was at a strip club,” Dean stares out the windshield, a small smile forming, “Talk about a dream case.”

Cas looks back out the window, mutters, “No, I don’t think djinn are involved at all.”

“Stupid,” Dean whispers in lieu of laughing. Cas has a faint smirk, but he keeps his eyes trained on the people milling about in the late evening. The quiet between them is comfortable for a few minutes.

“Can I ask you something?” Dean’s voice is soft and candid enough to make Cas both curious and apprehensive.

“Of course,” Cas replies.

“The other night,” Dean hesitates, not really sure what he’s trying to say, “were you…was that about—”

Cas abruptly smacks his arm, pointing with his hand covertly beneath the dash, “Look, look.”

Their supposed siren is walking with purpose towards the building’s door. She flips a lock of blonde hair over her shoulder, her hips swinging in a tight dress. Dean lets out a breath that’s almost a whistle.

They follow her into the club. Cas chooses a table and Dean orders two whiskeys. So they don’t stand out, not drinking in a club, of course. Cas eyes the glasses curiously but says nothing. They wait for something to happen. Cas keeps his eyes over Dean’s shoulder on the probable monster in the corner. “What were you saying?”

“Huh?” Dean shakes his head, “Oh. Nothing. I dunno.”  
  
Cas looks at Dean fully. “What, Dean?”

“Nothing, man,” He takes a hearty swig, lets the whiskey coat his whole tongue before he swallows. “I just wanted to know if you’re alright, okay?”

Cas tilts his head, as usual. Dean rolls his eyes, downs the rest of the drink, glances around the room. His eyes catch on a few beautiful women and he remembers that immediately abandoned mission to sleep with as many as he could.

He looks back at Cas, who has his eyes trained on the siren again.

“Just, you know. I think I counted 8 bottles of vodka. Usually something _makes_ someone drink like that.”

A guarded look of understanding dawns on Cas’s face, “Are you…attempting a ‘chick flick moment’?”

Dean rolls his eyes even harder this time, muttering something Cas can’t parse. He grabs Cas’s glass and downs it like a shot. Cas gives a disapproving shake of his head.

“Not like one drink is gonna do anything for you anyway,” Dean grumbles, standing to go order more.

“We’re on a case, Dean,” Cas says, authoritatively. Dean makes a face.

“We’re two dudes in a nightclub creeping on a hot monster bimbo and waiting to ventilate her,” Dean justifies, “I think I’ve earned a second drink.”

“Third drink,” Cas corrects, then narrows his eyes and spitefully says, “Are _you_ okay? Usually something _makes_ someone drink like that.”

“Shut _up_.”

Cas’s hand shoots out to his wrist and yanks him off balance, back into the chair.

“What the f—”

“He’s here,” Cas nods over Dean’s shoulder.

The man looks exactly what Dean would imagine a victim to look like. The woman smiles naturally, her cold expression melting. Dean doesn’t _think_ she’s looks like she’s controlling him—any more than a woman that looks like Debbie Harry controls a man that looks like Macaulay Culkin. But something about the way she looks at him makes Dean nervous. Like he’s a meal, and not in a hot way.

Dean and Cas follow them from a distance out of the club, to a house nearby. Sam meets them there and they scope out the place.

“We sure this is a siren?” Sam stage whispers, tightening his grip on the bronze knife.

“I’m not even sure this is a monster,” Dean shrugs honestly, “but if it is, we gotta do something before she kills Kevin.”

“Kevin?” Sam asks.

“McAllister! Home Alone! Come on, Sammy,” he mutters, exasperated. Sam doesn’t make the connection because why would he, that movie is about a child.

Dean circles around the back of the house while Sam tries to get a look in the front window without looking like a peeping tom. Cas follows Dean and catches a glimpse of movement through a big kitchen window. The couple is making out against the counter, oblivious. He motions silently to Dean, who creeps over to his position. His face lights up for a second, and when Cas looks back, the woman has pulled the top of her dress down.

He rolls his eyes at the bald delight over Dean’s face and feels a swift punch of…anger. Must be righteous anger sweeping through him.

Dean then sees Cas in the house, in a hallway where the couple can’t see. He double takes, looking back at where Cas is no longer next to him.

“Wait, wait!” Dean says to himself.

But Cas just uses the hall mirror to confirm the woman isn’t human, its slimy pale skin and sunken eyes twisting to get a hold on its prey. Then he blips right behind them, shoving his angel blade through her neck and slicing down with a satisfying series of crunches. The man screams, of course, so Cas lifts two fingers to his head and puts him to sleep.

“Jesus frigging Christ,” Dean winces. Cas appears at his side again, a little blood spattered on his jacket. He squashes any resentment for Cas’s impatience when he sees the proud smirk on his face.

He chuckles with relief, claps Cas’s shoulder, breathes, “Some days you get to kill a whore.”

\--

It’s late by the time they’re driving back. Sam has conked out in the back seat, despite barely having expended himself. Black Sabbath is floating quietly enough from the stereo to not disturb him. Dean taps his leg in rhythm, just barely humming along with the guitar solos. He can feel Cas inspecting him from the passenger seat, headlights washing over both of them, but doesn’t say anything.

“It wasn’t you,” Cas lies, out of nowhere.

“Huh?” Dean glances at him.

“The bender,” Cas says, as if that clears it up. Then, “It wasn’t because of…you.”

“What?” Dean looks back at him sharply. Cas turns away, watches trees fly past.

They sit there for a second before Dean whispers, more to himself than Cas, “Why would it be me?”

They travel a few more minutes in relative silence before Cas asks with solemnity, “Why would a fairy dance with a dwarf?”  
  
Dean has no idea how to respond to that. Is that a metaphor for the two of them? Who’s the fairy in this situation?

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before the lyrics hit him. Cas is talking about the song playing. Dean shakes his head, thinking Cas is the world’s worst conversationalist. He remembers that first year they met, how he would just disappear without a goodbye. So many not-apocalypses and almost-deaths later, Cas sits in the car patiently for the two hour drive back to the place they all live in. Together. When he does disappear, Dean usually finds him in his own room. He’s no longer worried he won’t see him again. At least, not consciously.

The song ends, the tape stops, and they drive the rest of the way in total silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean starts exercising regularly. It is a strange development for everyone. But to be fair, his version of exercising is pummeling a punching bag any time he has a feeling. Which is better than drinking them away. Which he still does, but less so. Cas comes to find him one day, to ask if he knows something about a case Sam’s been working on.   
  
“There’s a case?” Dean suddenly looks hopeful. “Where?”  
  
“Omaha. Sam and Eileen are already taking care of it. They thought it was a ‘milk run’ but it seems it’s more complicated than that.”  
  
“Right,” he pushes the bag a little with his taped knuckles. “They’re already there?”

“They left a few hours ago. There’s a note in the kitchen. But he just called.”  
  
“He called _you_?” Dean squints. Cas rolls his eyes theatrically.

“He called _you. You_ didn’t _answer_. I answered, and he said, ‘ _Cas_?’ and I said, ‘Hello, Sam,’ and he said, ‘Why are you answering Dean’s phone?’ and I said, ‘It was in the library’—"

“Jesus Christ, dude,” Dean waves his arms in the air, “I get it! I get it. You’re so…” Dean resists the urge to punch the bag again.

“What?” Cas asks, not quite hiding the irritation that surfaces.

“Nothing, sorry,” Dean shakes his head. “So what’s going on in Omaha?”

Cas shrugs, “He said he’d call back after they talked to another witness. They were thinking a shapeshifter but now they’re not so sure.”

Dean chews on this and then says, “Okay,” before squaring up and punching the bag a few times. Cas stares from the doorway disapprovingly.

“What?” Dean makes a face.

“Your form is terrible. That’s not how one trains.”

“What, you gonna train me?” Dean laughs, throwing another punch.

“I _could_ ,” Cas shrugs, looking away.

_I bet_ , Dean doesn’t say. Then, impulsively, he does ask, “You want to?” He holds his fists up, circles them in the air like Popeye.

“You mean…spar?” Cas is dubious. They both know he could kick Dean’s ass into next Tuesday. “I don’t know…” he shuffles.

“How am I gonna get better, huh?” Dean punches again, not sure why he’s demanding, “I mean, unless you’re too tired or something. If trenchcoat baby needs to go sleep...”  
  
It’s such an obvious bait but it works nonetheless. Challenge crosses into Cas’s eyes as he huffs out a pretentious laugh. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then you can heal me again,” he grins. Abruptly Dean realizes what he’s insisting on, and then why. 

\--

Cas changes into a shirt that’s too big and shorts that are too small. The shorts are hot in a gym-teacher sort of way, but the shirt is obviously one of Sam’s, the hem almost covering the shorts entirely. He looks goofy. Dean still needs to chug some water anyway and use all of his energy to concentrate on keeping his eyes on where Cas’s fists are, not what shade or exactly how hairy his thighs are.

They trade a few jabs, circling the small room. Cas keeps his face a polished stone. He feels freer in these clothes, which has the reverse effect of making him even more cognizant of his superior power. Whatever has changed of his “angel” status over the years, he’s still got strength that’s noticeably outside of human. 

Dean is more careful of his stance than with the punching bag, but he’s outclassed. He takes pride in his dodges and even gets in a few good swings. But Cas handles him easily, even as the fact of this makes Dean swing harder. Cas wants to give him feedback, if only to justify the premise of this weird ritual, but he shakes out his neck and shoulders instead. 

Cas continues to pull his punches to his increasingly frantic partner. Then Dean clips his jaw. “Oh shit Cas sorry—” he starts as Cas gives him an instinctive open-palmed shove so forceful he takes two and a half steps back before hitting the wall. It knocks the breath out of him.

Then it’s Cas’s turn. His expression flushes with concern as he breathes, “I’m sorry, Dean, are you okay?”

Dean rubs the spot on his sternum, heaving. He smirks, looking down, “I’m fine. That was...um…” 

_Don’t say hot. Don’t say hot._

“...unexpected,” he finishes dully. Cas relaxes and rolls his eyes. 

“You’re sloppy,” he teases. “You’re not blocking. You have to—”

“I know what I have to do, _Miyagi,_ ” Dean steps forward and raises his fists, not acknowledging even to himself the flutter in his chest as Cas shifts again.

They trade more jabs until Dean is visibly exhausted, sweat darkening his soft gray shirt. He pulls the collar over his face for a second, to wipe his forehead, and then raises his fists again. 

“You’re tired,” Cas says, abandoning his stance. 

“And?” Dean still has his hands up, intensity in his eyes. 

Cas’s face clouds. He doesn’t understand this push and pull, why he keeps getting close, only to suddenly act like nothing happened at all. Maybe nothing is happening—maybe he’s misreading it. He thought it was all Gabriel. He remembers that night they fought in his room, when Dean leaned his lips in with a soft, strained expression. That was the spell. But then, in the kitchen. What was that? And what about Christmas? There was no grace involved at all.

Cas is no longer interested in playing this game. 

“And I don’t want to hurt you,” he says flatly. He turns to leave but can feel Dean’s swing coming before he sees it. He grabs his wrist, pivots behind him, and firmly shoves his back so he takes a few steps. “ _And_ you’re sloppy.”

Dean’s heaving, his shirt slicked to his skin. He’s grinning when he turns around, not processing that Cas is annoyed now, sweat darkening his collar and armpits.

“C’mon,” he coos, fists circling in the air, “I can take it.”

Cas watches a bead of sweat roll down Deans temple. He swallows heavily and almost forget all of his irritation. Almost. Dean watches the shifts in Cas’s micro expressions, only momentarily thinking he sees it again, that face from his dream. He does not think about the weight of Cas’s fingers on his tongue, nor does he even consider what they might taste like. He definitely does not lick sweat from his own lips and wonder if Cas’s tastes the same. 

His breath starts to even as they stare at each other for another moment. 

Cas reluctantly raises his fists, his head ticking to the side a few times. Dean dodges all attacks, but so does Cas. For a minute they are just dancing. But then Dean throws a fake out, lands a solid punch in Cas’s ribs. It lands harder than he intends and he has a cocky glint in his eye that Cas rashly wants to snuff out. 

So he rebounds by body slamming him. He runs at Dean, grabbing him by the waist and shoulder, and uses his weight to toss him to the mat like a sack of flour. A slick, pulsating sack of tightly packed flour.

He pins him in a sort of perpendicular setup, Dean too stunned to scramble for a hold on Cas’s arms. He lets his head fall back to the floor and tries to catch his breath. “You,” is all he says, looking straight up at the ceiling.

Cas takes an undetectable moment to code the feeling of Dean’s heaving chest against his like this, under two thin and damp cotton layers, into his long term memory. The flush in Deans cheeks, his mouth open and gasping. No matter how annoyed he gets, he thinks he might like to return to this one in the future.

Dean thinks about baseball. He thinks about C-Span, car engines, shapeshifter skin piles. Then with no warning he grabs Cas by the shoulders, pushes up on his feet, and, with all the strength he has, flips him. For a second, he triumphantly grins just a few inches from Cas’s face, breath hot and forceful. His gaze involuntarily travels down to Cas’s lips where his tongue pokes out to wet them. 

He almost blurts, “I’ll show _you_ sloppy,”—which probably would’ve finally sent them both over the edge—but he doesn’t get the chance. Cas hooks a leg around his and rolls them both again, but before Dean can get his bearings, Cas then somehow rolls him again onto his stomach in a superhuman display of power, pins one arm behind his back, the other to the floor by his side. Cas straddles him a minute, out of breath, before relaxing just a smidge to sit on top of him, a solid weight pressing into Dean’s ass and legs. Dean lets out what he hopes sounds like a groan of pain or exhaustion, and Cas gives a low, hoarse chuckle that rumbles through both of them.

No amount of baseball stats could stop the rush of blood in Dean’s body. 

From across the room, they both hear Dean’s cellphone ring where Cas left it. Dean lays there for a moment, heaving, half a hard on pressing into his leg, phone ringing impatiently.

“We’re done,” Cas breathes. He gives one last shove to Dean’s wrist pinned to the small of his back, and then, like he learned from the best, he gets up and flies out of the room as if nothing even happened. 

\--

When Dean returns the phone call, Sam explains that he and Eileen are gonna get a motel for the night instead of driving the three hours back. Dean is too distracted, even if he’s no longer stiff in his gym shorts, to question it. He just scolds Sam for just leaving a note instead of letting him know what was going on, and hangs up.

He shakes his head when he steps in the bathroom, peels his shirt off, and looks at a few spots on his torso where he can feel bruises forming. He gingerly presses the spot on his sternum where Cas shoved him and hisses. 

It’s possible that there’s some leftover spell still running through him. Making him… _want_. Right?

He gets in the shower and replays the entire fight and doesn’t touch himself at all but to wash off the sweat.

\--

Cas is sitting in bed, reading the big dusty tome again, when Dean casually wanders by.

“Sam and Eileen are honeymooning in Omaha, I guess,” he offers. Cas glances up from the book, turns a page, looks back down.

“Yep. Sounds like they’re dealing with some shifters,” he tries, stepping into the room. Dean’s eyes rove around and catch on a fuzzy blue thing on the desk. He steps closer to eye up the pipe cleaner sculpture. It’s familiar but he can’t place it—it doesn’t unlock anything.

“That so,” Cas says, holding the book open in his lap. He follows Dean’s gaze to the halo, then assesses Dean’s confusing reaction. Finally, when Dean just stands there with nothing else to add, he sighs, “Do you want it back?”  
  
“What?”

“The halo. Is that what you want?”  
  
Dean wrinkles, an insistent knocking behind his eyes. “Halo?” He asks. It looks like two pipe cleaners connected to another pipe cleaner to him.

Cas realizes, finally, that Dean has no memory of that night at all. His chest pangs, cold flushing inside him, which he ignores.

“Oh,” Cas says, “you made it. You wanted me to climb the tree.”  
  
Dean doesn’t quite understand the sentence. “I what?”

“You were incredibly inebriated,” Cas rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, I—” Dean rubs the back of his neck, “Sorry about that.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Cas forces a shrug, “It happens.”

“Didn’t do anything embarrassing, did I?” Dean intends it as a joke, chuckling a little, but the way Cas starts looking around the room and shaking his head a little too insistently makes him nervous.

“No, no,” he stammers, “no, nothing.”

Dean wipes his hand down his face melodramatically.

“Nothing more embarrassing than I did,” Cas offers, which isn’t even true.

Dean squares his shoulder, standing up straight instinctively. “What does _that_ mean? What did _you_ do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” He almost squeaks, which Dean would laugh at, if he wasn’t being blindsided by some blackout shenanigan that’s so far only been described as not-as-embarrassing-as-something-Cas-did, which is not exactly comforting.

“Dude,” Dean sits down on the bed, “just show me. I have to know now.”  
  
“No,” Cas folds his arms.

“Are you serious?”  
  
He is.

“Come on, man. Don’t be a baby. It’s _my_ blackout.” Frustration is bubbling now from Cas’s stubbornness. He just stares straight ahead, lips pursed in conviction. Dean folds his arms, leans in. “I didn’t say you had a beautiful mouth or something, did I?”

Cas scoffs, “I said it was _exquisite._ ” He didn’t mean to admit it, but he can’t resist correcting Dean.

Dean’s mouth drops open with incredulous amusement. “Didn’t think you’d remember that,” he says honestly.

“I remember everything,” Cas lies.

“Prove it,” Dean challenges. He catches Cas’s eyeline to beam the words _show me_ directly into his brain.

But Cas just blips out of the room, leaving Dean to yell and kick the bed in frustration.


	6. Chapter 6

“So, we thought it was a shifter because of the doppelgangers,” Sam explains over the phone as Dean shifts lanes to pick up some speed, “but Eileen talked to a witness that said, get this, her dad had to _ask_ her to be let in the house before he…”

“Turned mom into piñata?” Dean offers.  
  
“Weird, right? I mean, doesn’t that sound like…”  
  
“Wait,” Dean furrows his brow, “More rakshasa? Didn’t we just wipe out a whole camp of them?”

“Right? I mean, why are these guys popping up everywhere? We never figured out what brought them to Santa Rosa.”

“Well we saved a town full of innocents, Sam, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not in the habit of looking at no horse’s mouths.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam shrugs. “Alright, I gotta—I gotta go. Just call me when you get here.”

Dean ends the call and tosses the phone in the passenger seat. Just great. He hates it when things get complicated.

\--

The four of them—Sam, Dean, Eileen, and Cas—all convene in a motel room.

“So maybe we…maybe we don’t ice this one so fast,” Dean offers, “have a little ‘discussion’?”

“Okay, but we have to _find_ it first,” Eileen points out. “It seems localized to the neighborhood but other than that we don’t have much to go on.” She points to the map on the table between them.

“We have a meeting with the head of the homeowner’s association tomorrow,“ Sam explains, “but four people have died in as many days, so we need help keeping a lookout tonight.”

“Okay. So we’re on the neighborhood watch. Looking for someone that has to be invited inside, and looks like someone else, but we don’t know what.” Dean folds his arms.

“They could also be invisible,” Cas mentions helpfully.

\--

Prior to the bizarre nest of them in Santa Rosa, and then a few random ones after that, the brothers had only one run in with a rakshasa, nearly a decade ago, and it wasn’t all that difficult to gank. They were young and inexperienced then—still grieving for their father. Hadn’t even met Cas yet. But apparently the spirits caught wind of the power of a family or something, because about thirty of them were harder to take down. It was no match for a weapon of the gods of course, but still. It seems far from coincidental to be running into them again and again, especially not having so much as mentioned one as a possibility for like eight years.

So sure, Dean is already on edge when he and Cas happen upon a man stalking around a suburban house. And it doesn’t help to be then surprised by another man standing behind them with a long, twisted sword. But even so, when they brawl and he stabs the guy with a brass blade (which has the same effect on him as a wet noodle), he’s still keeping it together. He’s cool under pressure. He can handle a change of plans.

It’s not until Cas lays a hand over the man’s head and just stands there doing nothing that Dean really starts to lose it.

“Any time now, Cas!” He yells, clambering for the knife he dropped. “Now would be good!”

“I’m—I am!” Cas yells back.   
  
The man’s face twists into a repulsive grin as he shimmers invisible and they lose him. Cas is still standing with his hand raised to the empty air, staring at it. Dean charges a few steps before accepting the futility. He drops his hands to his knees to wheeze for a second.

“What the hell was that, man?” He asks hoarsely. Cas turns his hand in the air and stares at his palm.

“I’m not—” is all Cas says before he blips away.

Dean’s heart is pounding into ears, something’s pressing on the back of his throat.

“Cas?!” He yelps involuntarily. Crickets sing from the woods beyond the property line. “Fucking shit!” He grapples with the phone in his pocket.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what’s happening.” Cas frowns behind him. Dean whips around with owl eyes. “I feel…strange.”

“Cas?” is all Dean can croak out with his throat completely dry, whole body thumping with adrenaline. Cas’s face is pale. He keeps licking his lips, brow knitted, looking into the middle distance. Dean reaches out to grab his sleeve by the forearm. “Cas, you okay?”

“Something’s happening. To my grace.”

“Dean?” Sam’s tinny voice floats up from the phone in Dean’s other hand. He doesn’t even remember hitting send. 

“Sam,” Dean raises the phone to his ear, keeping his gaze locked with Cas, “we got a situation here.”

\--

One minute, the four are piling into the Impala, trying to get their stories straight. The next minute, Cas is gone again. Dean slams on the steering wheel, yelling, “Damnit, Cas! What the hell!”

“Is he doing it on purpose?” Eileen asks.

“I don’t—I don’t think so,” Dean sputters.

Sam shakes his head while Dean starts the car. “He seems sick. Did you see him? He was, like…” he scrunches his face and waves his hand, “clammy. Wait, should we wait for him?” Sam asks when Dean puts the car in reverse.

“Shit, I don’t know.” Dean leans back, lets out a roar. “Shit!”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of three heaving bodies. Dean wordlessly pleads Sam to think of something, anything, but he’s just as helpless.

“I don’t like this, Sam!” He whines. “I don’t like this at all!”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Eileen says from the backseat.

“You don’t know that!” Dean shouts, and then drops his head, mutters, “Sorry—but you don’t.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Eileen says unflinching.

Then, another ruffle of feathers, and Cas is sprawled in the backseat, legs pushing up against Eileen’s, head lolling back.

“Cas! Cas, you okay?” Dean throws the car in park and twists around in one motion.

“I don’t know,” his voice scratches, “but I think we should leave.”

That’s all Dean needs to hear. He whips the Impala back into gear and on to the road, away from the stupid cursed suburb.

“Did he do something to you? The rat shaker piece of shit?” Dean asks.

“No, I don’t think so. Rakshasa aren’t that powerful. They likely don’t even have a concept of angels,” Cas mumbles. Eileen is pressing the back of her hand to his forehead, as if it would even help to know if he was feverish.

“Where do you keep going?” Sam asks.  
  
“Zagreb, Croatia, first,” Cas licks his lips, “Then Reading, Pennsylvania.”

Dean shares a look with Sam. Eileen’s voice wavers, “Um…guys?”  
  
In the rearview, Dean can see Cas’s eyes start to glow ice blue. Cas gasps and shrieks, “Close your eyes!”

Dean slams on the brakes in the middle of the street. The brightness surges through the car, a radiating beam of energy that, had they not been on a back road in the middle of the night, would’ve caught someone’s attention. That’s the one piece of luck they can hold on to. Because when the light disintegrates, Cas is left slumped in the backseat, completely knocked out, his mouth open still from a scream.

\--

“We have to get him back to the bunker,” Dean says, pacing around the motel room and twisting his neck trying to pop something. Cas is just laying on the bed, breathing evenly, but otherwise closed for business. No response. Just flopped onto the bed where Dean lowered him. “We have to make a spell or something, or find out what can mess with mojo like this.”

“I don’t know, I think he needs to rest, man. It looks like his battery is drained. And not to be that guy, but—the rakshasa are still out there.” Sam runs his hands through his big dumb hair.

Dean shoots him an umm-our-fucking-friend-might-be-dying look, but Sam counters with a there’s-also-innocent-people-still-in-danger look.

“Look, I’m as freaked as you are,” Sam says foolishly. Dean gives him a hard glare until Sam amends, “Okay, okay, I mean I’m freaked out too. But we can’t let the monsters go. We have to figure out how many we’re dealing with.”  
  
“We need answers,” Eileen notes. “What do they want? Can we use a devil’s trap on them?”

“Well they want to _eat people_ is all I know!” Dean yells with rage that everyone know is born of worry but is still irritating nonetheless. Then his demeanor shifts and he looks up at the ceiling, “Gabriel, where are you, you son of a bitch? Is this you? I’ll kill you!”  
  
“What? Why would he—” Sam starts.

“Where for art thou, you rotten pile of Mars Bars?” Dean tries. “Answer me!”

“What does Gabriel have to do with this?” Sam asks again.

They wait a minute while nothing happens before Dean finally sinks onto the bed next to Cas’s feet. “I don’t know,” he says, wiping a hand down the full length of his face. “I don’t know.”

\--

It’s almost 2 AM when Sam finally addresses it.  
  
“We should get another room, huh,” he yawns, nodding over at Cas in the middle of the only bed. Some of the color has returned to his cheeks and he’s stopped visibly sweating, so the three of them unclench just enough for fatigue to settle in.

Dean doesn’t even realize Sam left and came back until he tosses him a keycard. “They only have singles left, so we’ll take the bed,” he shares a small smile with Eileen, “and looks like you’re on a pullout,” he nods at Dean.

The thought of sleeping on a grimy pullout couch sends a wave of repulsion through Dean. But worse is the next thought, of Cas waking up alone and not knowing what’s happening and disappearing without a trace. There’s no reason for it to be like that—he could leave a note pinned to Cas’s lapel like a little school child. But it’s just that thought that makes him pat the couch and say, “Actually, I’ll just stay on this one. In case sleeping beauty wakes up.”

Sam shrugs. Eileen nods her head with too much curious assessment for Dean’s taste.

\--

It’s exactly 2:38 AM when Dean startles awake. Whatever nightmare it was disintegrates too fast for him to even remember. He sits up on the little foldout piece of shit and rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking until he can see. Moonlight seeps in through the curtains. Cas is a lumpy outline across the room.

Dean gets a bottle of water from the mini fridge and chugs half of it.

Then, almost as if on autopilot, and if you ask him, definitely stress- and sleep-induced psychosis, Dean crawls into the bed with Cas.   
  
Cas is still on top of the sheets when Dean opens the covers on the other side of the bed. The shuffling of cloth and weight as he settles in on the mattress stirs Cas, and Dean freezes. But Cas only rolls onto his side, facing away, and folds his hands up under his chin. Dean lets out a breath of relief and falls asleep before his head hits the pillow.

\--

It’s 3:44 when Cas wakes. He lays there with his eyes closed, one light turning on in his mind at a time. He was having issues with his grace. He was in the car. It was coming up like vomit. None of these memories prepare him for what he opens his eyes to.

Dean sleeps with his exquisite mouth hanging open like a trout. It’s incredibly unseemly, and yet. Clean moonlight paints blue shadows across his face. The rhythm of his rising and falling chest moves Cas, deep in the pit of him, like a song. How he or Dean got here seems so irrelevant.

\--

Dawn is filtering through the cheap curtains when Dean wakes again. He shifts his legs, scrunches his face. They’re each curled on their sides, facing each other, with enough space between them that the last remnants of Dean’s internalized homophobia can rest easy. He opens his eyes to Cas staring at him already.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas greets, his voice a brick scraping concrete.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean’s face breaks into a relieved smile against his will. He wants to say, _We talked about this—It’s creepy, Cas._ But instead, he just asks, “How you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” he blinks a few times. “What happened?”

Dean scoffs. “Was gonna ask you the same question.”

For a minute, they look over each other’s faces with no pretext. Something about having just awoken, the soft glow of day right before sunrise like a bubble around them. Dean can feel his heart quicken, just a little, as he watches Cas’s eyes rove over his face, neck, shoulder, and down the outline of his body underneath the blankets. He feels guilty that Cas spent the whole night on top of the bedspread, huddled into his trench coat. At least he remembered to take his shoes off for him.

Cas doesn’t ask why Dean is waking up a foot away from him. He doesn’t want the details of whatever elaborate justification there is. A Gabriel spell or whatever. He just wants to lay for a moment and feel.

“You look better than last night,” Dean says, shifting his weight but not changing position. “You kinda freaked me out.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas murmurs. He lifts his head an inch to cast a look around the room. “Is everyone alright?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s fine. You lit up like a firecracker and then passed out. Sam and Eileen got another room.”

Cas’s head falls back to the pillow and he closes his eyes. Dean studies the topography of his face, his wide cheek curving down to a hollow. The pointed line of his nose. The divot cleaving his chin. The shape and faint curve of his lips.

Maybe it’s because of the daybreak bubble, or the uncertainty of whether or not Cas is even okay yet, that Dean allows it. _His best feature is his eyes,_ he thinks, _but sometimes, its his cheek bones_. He doesn’t lock it away behind his mind. He lets it sit there, at the front, accepted.

“We should go back to White Oak,” Cas mumbles into the pillow. “Look for…clues.”

“We’ll take care of that. You stay here,” Dean props himself on his elbow. “I don’t want you going Super Saiyan on us again. I can’t keep carrying you around, Cas, my back ain’t what it used to be.”

Cas opens his eyes narrowly. “I’m not going to just sit around doing nothing.”

“You don’t—you can do research or something, man, you love that junk.” An exasperated smirk pulls across Dean’s lips. “I’ll get you some big dusty books to make sweet love to while we meet with Suzie Suburbs.”  
  
Cas props himself on his elbow to mirror Dean. “I do not fornicate with books, Dean. The term bibliophilia is figurative and doesn’t mean ‘lover’ in the sense that—“

Dean reaches over and knocks Cas’s hand out from under his chin so he flops back onto the pillow. Cas narrows his eyes and reaches out to do the same, but Dean grabs his wrist while stifling a laugh, holds it away from him. A microscopic smile spreads across Cas’s face, half buried by the pillow, while he plays at struggling. It’s all unbearably domestic.

Cas reaches his other hand out but Dean grabs that one too. Cas shakes him and they wrestle in the bed they’re sharing—totally platonically, obviously. Dean pushes Cas towards the edge, and Cas flips him like a ragdoll over his own body and then, accidentally, onto the floor beside him. The blankets flip with him and settle over Cas with a hush. 

“Ow! Fuck, dude,” Dean wheezes with laughter. “Guess you’re feeling better. Jesus!” He rubs his shoulder where he landed. Cas lazily reaches out from beneath the blanket and knocks Dean’s hand away, grabs his shoulder.

Then Cas freezes. He pokes his face out, crumpled in consternation. “My grace is gone.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“I can’t—I can’t feel it.” Cas leans up, fully alert now. Then there’s a beep and a click and the door opens to reveal Sam and Eileen, already dressed. Sam looks at Dean spread on the floor by Cas’s bed, still being clutched by the shoulder, with questioning narrowed eyes.

“What, you don’t knock?” Dean barks.

“Are we…interrupting?” Eileen raises an eyebrow with a smirk.

“My grace is gone,” Cas repeats, releasing Dean and sitting up to look at both his hands in his lap. 

\--

“So does this make you human again?” Sam asks, after they’ve gone over everything that’s happened in the last twenty four hours a hundredth time. “How many times can you switch species? Is there a limit?”  
  
“Sam,” Eileen chides, because she has more tact and focus than anyone present.

“Look the HOA woman is expecting me and Eileen in twenty,” Sam shakes his head and concentrates. He hopes his quick recovery impresses Eileen. “You guys should look for hex bags or something around where it happened.”

“Yeah we’ll just creep around in the suburbs in broad daylight, good idea, Sammy.” Dean rolls his eyes but waves them both off. “We’ll figure something else out. Just go. Meet back here at 10.”

As soon as the door closes, Dean turns to Cas and asks, “You hungry?”

Cas squints with great derision but then actually considers it and realizes, troublingly: “Yes.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dean sits in the booth, fork in hand, ready to slice through a short stack of pancakes. Syrup is dripping down the sides and a pat of butter is blurring from the warmth. Steam rises from the eggs and bacon nestled next to them. He’s in the middle of saying, “Now that’s what I’m talking about” when he looks across the table at the empty space where Cas no longer is.

To his left, out the window, Cas rematerializes. He’s standing in the middle of the road, looking all around himself in perplexity. An SUV lays on the horn and screeches its brakes.

Dean drops his fork and sprints through the door. Cas glitches again and ends up in the parking lot a few feet from Dean, who collides with him unexpectedly. They both stumble for a moment, holding onto each other’s arms so that neither of them fall.

“I thought you were better!” Dean whines, but Cas looks a little pale. A wisp of neon circles his irises. “No, Cas, not here!” Dean shakes him by the shoulders. There’s too many people around. And they’re all staring at the commotion. But light is dribbling out of Cas’s open mouth. “Cas, please!”

Cas squeezes his fingers into Dean’s elbows and gnashes his teeth. There’s a sound like a wind tunnel and Dean’s stomach drops when Cas throws him to the ground. It’s not until after the light explodes and disintegrates, after the unmistakable thump of a body to the ground, that Dean realizes there’s no rash from asphalt, but instead just a bruise from a hard wooden floor. He opens his eyes and registers all at once the library and Cas in an unmoving heap across from him.

“Cas?” He scrambles to him, tries to rouse him by leaning him against the wall, then grabbing his head, cradling his skull with both hands. “Cas c’mon. Please be okay.” Cas is breathing but otherwise unresponsive. There’s a faint sheen of sweat over his skin, highlighting his sharp points. The silence pushes in on Dean’s shoulders, a solid weight.

“Jesus, Cas, c’mon,” Dean breathes. His thumbs worry over the corners of Cas’s jaw. “I don’t _fucking_ like this,” is all he can think so say. He lets his hands slide down Cas’s neck to rest on his shoulder. The room is quiet but for their heavy breathing. He leans his forehead down to Cas’s other shoulder for a few minutes.

Then: “Dean?” Cas rasps.

Dean whips his head up. Cas’s eyes are closed in a pained expression, breath huffing out of him. He moves one hand to cushion the back of Cas’s head from the brick wall. “I’m here, buddy, I gotcha. I’m here.”

They stay like that for another minute before Dean’s stomach rumbles so loud he swears it echoes. He throws out a low, exasperated chuckle. “You couldn’t wait until after we ate to go nuclear, huh?”

Something tugs at the corner of Cas’s mouth. “My apologies.”

\--

After moving Cas to his bed to keep resting, calling Sam and updating him on what happened, and eating two old protein bars out of desperation, Dean says to the empty kitchen, “Okay, Gabriel, I’m asking nicely. Pretty please with sugar on top. Something’s up with Cas. And if this ain’t you—We…we need your help.”

A flutter of air and Gabriel’s already reaching for the fridge door, robe flowing behind him. “See, now’s that so hard? No need for summoning and holy fire or empty threats.” He grabs creamer and pops the lid, pours it generously into the steaming mug of coffee he’s holding. Then he reflects on it a moment, lifts the bottle in the air, and pours it right in his mouth. Dean grimaces.

“What’s up?” he asks around a mouthful of creamer.

“Cas’s mojo is on the fritz. He keeps exploding like a damn angel bomb. And…and earlier he said his grace was dead or something.”

Gabriel seems genuinely puzzled. “Huh. Weird.”

“That’s all you got? ‘Huh, weird’?” Dean snaps.

“I don’t know, man!” Gabriel scrunches up his face to mock Dean. He replaces the carton in the fridge and swirls his mug in the air. “Dish the deets? Tell me what the hell happened? Give me _something_ to go on. Geez, and I really thought I was teaching you a lesson earlier. Should’ve known trying to humble you, it’s like trying to…teach a frog to play piano.”

Dean doesn’t understand the analogy. “We were hunting rakshasa in the suburbs of Omaha yesterday. We got jumped by two mooks and all of a sudden Cas’s shorting out. Can’t smite, keeps blipping out, then he goes full fireworks and KOs. Same thing today.”

“Rakshasa?” Gabriel furrows. “Didn’t you just—”

“Yeah, yeah, we used the vaj stick on a whole nest of ‘em in New Mexico.”

“ _Vajra_ ,” Gabriel corrects.

“Right. Vajra.”

“That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” Gabriel folds his arms. “Rakshasa popping up like moles. In middle America.”

“You think they did something to him?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know what they could do. They’re like ants to angels. Even ones cut off from heaven. This sounds more like a curse, or a spell. He piss off any witches lately?”

Dean searches his memories. The last witch they encountered definitely got dead. Burnt to a crisp. And that was a while back. “No, I don’t think so…I guess I don’t know.”

Gabriel nods and assess. “Well, then. I got nothing. I’m gonna go see a girl about those spirits, though.”

“Wait, what? What about Cas?”

“Maybe try spending more time on foreplay if you don’t want him to blow his load so fast.” Gabriel shrugs with his signature facetious grin and disappears.

\--

“Cas? Did you…lock the door?” Dean asks through the wood, jiggling the handle.

No response.

“Cas? Buddy? You okay in there?”

Still nothing.

“Cas!” He shouts hoarsely. It comes out angrier than he intends, because everything comes out angrier than he intends. That’s kind of his thing.

A shuffling noise and a click, then the knob turns slowly in his hand. He drops it as the door creaks open two inches and a single eye peers out from the darkness.

“What,” Cas states.

“What’s going on, man? You okay?” He tries to look into the room but all the lights are off.

“I’m fine.” He starts to close the door but Dean leans his shoulder into it.

“Wait! Wait man. Come on. Jeez. I’m just—woah—” Dean suddenly loses his balance as Cas accidentally flies over to the other side of the room.

Cas’s shoulders are almost up to his ears. His hair seems filled with static electricity, like its swelling up into the air. There’s unambiguous fury in his stride as he rushes over to Dean, pushes him back through the doorway, and shuts the door, ending the whole interaction with a decisive click from the locking door.

\--

_Fine_ , Dean thinks petulantly. He huffs his way back to the library to do (ugh) research.

Less familiar with the organization of books than he’d care to admit, Dean’s grateful for the tiny, neatly-handwritten labels taped to each shelf. And especially that they seem to be at least partly organized by creature type, so he can happen upon a whole row of books identified under _Angels_. There are thick leather tomes and pocket sized reference books and what appears to be three Mead brand spiral notebooks tucked neatly in the middle. He pulls one out and flips through it, noting the immaculate handwriting among symbols and diagrams of sigils.

Dean replaces the notebook and then clamps his hands on either ends of the whole row of books, compressing them into a single object he can pull from the shelf and quickly tip sideways to carry to the table. He is of course most impressive when no one is around to witness.

He pulls the notebooks out to start, but without an index or table of contents, he’s stuck leafing through them and skimming. And there’s not much information about grace or its properties or what could affect it, just a bunch of instructions for which sigils do what and how, or recipes for spells and their incantations with phonetic spelling.   
  
Dean pushes the notebooks aside and starts with the massive leather tome near the end. A puff of dust wheezes over his face when he cracks the cover open. He coughs and realizes there’s no way he can do this without a beer, at least.

So he’s four and a half beers deep, and halfway through nine different books, when a furious shout and then a crash ring out down the hall. “Cas?” He calls, sprinting towards the sound instinctively with an empty bottle clutched by the neck.

He’s at Cas’s door with too much momentum, sliding on his feet, at the same moment the door opens and Cas goes to take a step out, stopping short when he realizes Dean’s right there.

“Oh, I—”

“What happened?” Dean asks breathily.

Cas’s eyes are stuck on the floor while he chews his lip. “Nothing, I just need—” he starts, trying to maneuver around Dean. But Dean’s a boulder in the doorway, one hand clutching the frame. And it doesn’t take that long of a silence for him to hear a _drip, drip_ , to look down and see a few dashes of blood on the floor, to follow the trail up to Cas’s knuckles.

“Jesus H. Christ on the goddamn cross,” Dean mutters, grabbing Cas’s hand to angle his wounds into the light. “What did you do? Fight the wall?”

Cas’s jaw tightens as he glances up to his messy hand, held by Dean in the air between them as he ducks his head, just slightly, to examine. “I did not engage in combat with an inanimate object.”

“Oh yeah? So let’s see the other guy,” Dean looks around the room behind him and bites the inside of his lip so he doesn’t smirk. He pushes the sleeve up past Cas’s wrist to prevent blood stains.

“I didn’t engage in combat at all,” Cas says, biting down. “I may have expressed a heightened emotion due to my volatile state of grace through a physical exertion which happened to spatially coincide with the structural barrier of my room.”

Dean tries to manifest his annoyance into a laser beam that cuts right into Cas’s skull, but instead he just looks dumbfounded.

“Great,” he rolls his eyes after a moment, letting go of Cas’s hand, “Well now you happen to spatially coincide with a busted hand. And looks like you’re outta juice so…let’s patch you up like a real boy, Pinocchio.”

“That’s not necessary, I can apply bandages myself,” Cas protests. He’s chewing his cheek and looking down the hall. His embarrassment is mostly just exasperating Dean. It’s not like Dean hasn’t punched his feelings into a wall or door or car or bed or—

“Yeah, and I can fuck myself but it’s always better…when someone…else…does it,” Dean says haltingly as he realizes what words are coming out of his mouth. He checks the empty bottle in his hand for any merciful remnants of beer, but of course, it’s empty.

“…what?” Cas asks, following behind as Dean has already turned to walk down the hall to the bathroom where the closest first aid kit resides.

“I just mean I’ll do it, it’s hard to do one-handed,” Dean tosses over his shoulder. “ _Bandaging!_ I mean the bandaging.”

“I can manage—” Cas starts before Dean cuts him off by banging the bathroom door open.

“Dude. Just let me help.”

\--

Dean pulls each knob until the water runs warm enough over two of his fingers. He points to the flowing column and Cas obediently, if stubbornly, pushes his knuckles under. Red splashes around the bowl, swirling into pink. Muscles tick in his jaw as the water stings, pulling debris and little bits of broken flesh down into the drain.

When the water runs clear and the sink is white again, Dean turns the knobs and then folds a washcloth over Cas’s hand, gently patting with both hands. He leans his hip on the sink while Cas looks off through the doorway. The faint buzz from the light fixture fills the quiet.

“Shredded ‘em pretty good,” Dean murmurs, dabbing around the cuts. He drops the cloth by the sink and grabs an alcohol swab, pressing lightly to the wounds and eliciting a soft hiss from Cas. He pulls gauze and tape from the plastic kit.

“My grace will come back and this will all be unnecessary,” Cas notes flatly.

Dean clicks his tongue. “Yeah, and until then no more bleeding on the floor. Hold this,” he says, pressing gauze to his knuckles. Cas holds the white cotton against his other hand, glancing over as Dean pulls a small stretch of tape and rips it from the roll with his teeth. Cas gasps softly and swallows. Dean looks up, but then Cas is just looking back at his hands, blinking.

Dean takes a few strips of tape and secures the gauze, his fingertips brushing lightly against Cas’s, whose other hand falls back to his side as Dean starts rolling a beige elastic bandage around the base of his fingers.

Dean’s ignoring what feels like static electricity building in his chest. For no reason at all, he remembers they are alone in the bunker, as they are in this room. He pulls the bandage tight, tucking the end into the folds, then holds Cas’s hand up and catches his eye with a satisfied smile. “There,” he nods.

“Thank you,” Cas mumbles, looking away.

“No problem, man,” he shrugs. “Just, y’know, we got a perfectly good punching bag. Next time you want to punch something, try that.” When Cas doesn’t respond, he adds, “Or a pillow. Pillow works. Bunch of towels maybe. Sam, you can punch Sam, I’ll get him to come back,” Dean eyes start to crinkle as he watches Cas’s mouth struggle to stay a straight line, “Or me even, you can hit me.”

Cas scoffs and mutters something too lowly under his breath for Dean to hear.

“What was that?” Dean smirks, catching Cas’s eye as he turns back to face him. But Cas’s tiny smile is fading quickly, and now he’s staring up at Dean with an intensity he wasn’t prepared for. Dean realizes they are standing very close, shoulders almost touching as Dean leans back against the sink behind him and Cas stands right by his hip, his bandaged hand still suspended in the air between them. Pressure builds in the room like someone opened an airlock. Neither one of them moves. Cas takes a breath, opens his mouth—slowly, like the word needs time to assemble. But Dean suddenly panics and clears his throat obnoxiously, turns around to gather the supplies into the medical kit.

Cas nods, bites down, and says “Goodnight,” before scurrying out of the room. Dean slumps as the door shuts in front of him, leaving him to pack up the kit and wring out the still-bloody washcloth.

\--

When Sam and Eileen return to the bunker two days later, the atmosphere is tense.

They had gotten a lead from the HOA on an abandoned house, where they found a room in the basement filled with disgusting beds of live worms and beetles, so they staked the place out and managed to kill four rakshasa. They questioned one—unsuccessfully, but it seemed genuinely confused when Sam mentioned an angel, and reminded them that they’re not the casting-spells type. Then it tried to escape and Eileen shoved a brass blade into its heart and twisted. 

They knew the objective was to get answers, but they were both pretty proud of themselves nonetheless. Taking out some flesh-eating creeps and surviving is enough some days.

But when they clamber down the metal stairs into the bunker, Dean is standing there in a robe and pajamas with huge bags under his eyes. He’s drinking from a tall thermos. His hair is sticking out in the back and Sam’s not sure if it’s from sleeping or pulling on it.

“No word on Cas’s…thingy?” Eileen asks, lowering her duffel bag on to the table.

“No. And he’s not getting better. It’s been,” Dean narrows his eyes and takes a sip from his coffee, “a lot.”

“How often are the episodes happening?” Sam asks, shifting his duffel’s strap on his shoulder.

Dean sets the thermos on the table and lifts his hands in a half shrug. “I don’t know, he’s locked himself in his room like a goddamn teenager. Every so often he appears in front of me and then disappears just as quickly. I’m not sure he’s having ‘episodes’ anymore, as much as he just can’t control when he’s magic and when he’s limp.”

“How do you know he’s in his room? If he keeps disappearing?” Eileen asks.

Dean shuffles a little bit. “I don’t I guess, but I keep checking on him. And I keep texting him ‘Still alive?’ and he responds ‘yes’ to those. So.”

“I guess it’s time to read more angel lore,” Sam nods positively, like an eager nerd.

“Gabriel said it might be a spell. Or a curse. We know anything that can reverse that?” Dean asks.

“It’s sort of hard if we don’t know what _kind_ of—wait, you talked to Gabriel?” Sam’s face furrows.

“Yeah for like two seconds before he turned tail for some girl or something.” Dean’s chewing on his lip. “He doesn’t know anything, just said it seems like a curse and fucked off.”

Sam nods and grabs the thermos, takes a big swig. Dean grins watching Sam’s eyes bug out as he realizes the coffee is about one third parts whiskey.

“Really, Dean? It’s like ten in the morning.”  
  
“Hey, man,” Dean shrugs, “Two AM somewhere.”

\--

It’s another few days of Cas refusing to leave his room, Sam and Eileen doing “research” in Sam’s (theirs? Does Eileen live here now?), before Dean hits the end of his rope. Which, all things considered, is pretty good for him. He’s been leaving food and water outside Cas’s door, and it’s been disappearing, hopefully into Cas and not just around his bedroom. But with no headway on the mojo curse or how to solve it, and Cas being a moody little baby about the whole thing, Dean’s exhausted.

He throws himself onto the couch and clicks the TV on, tumbler of scotch in his hand. He surfs the channels for a minute before stopping on _Thelma and Louise_ halfway through.

A flap of air and flickering light signals Cas’s entrance. He sits on the couch next to Dean, head pointed towards the TV. Dean shakes his head, exasperated, and waits for him to just dematerialize. But Cas huffs a dramatic sigh and stands up.

“Limp again, huh?” Dean chuffs, a little too satisfied.

“Don’t mock me,” Cas grumbles. He folds his arms and glares at Dean, who smiles patronizingly up at him for a moment, before turning his attention back to the TV. Cas looks back at the screen, his eyes catching on Brad Pitt in a cowboy hat in the pouring rain. He stills, then slowly lowers himself down to the couch again. 

Dean knows this is a tenuous moment—if he says too much or the wrong thing, Cas will skulk off to his room again. He takes a few peeks at him, blue and gold glowing alternately over his face. He has bags under his eyes and his lips are chapped, his skin is sort of blotchy. Dean feels bad for taking a break from researching how to undo the curse, but he’s kinda felt like he’s been the only one trying for the last week, so he figures he’s earned one movie.

He turns back towards the screen. “You know, Geena Davis was one of my…” Dean starts, giving Cas a mischievous smirk. But Cas just squints. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

Cas adjusts his folded arms, eyes trained Louise slow kissing a man in a motel room. He mutters, “I thought you didn’t like ‘chick flicks.’”

“This is _not_ a chick flick!” He shakes his head, trying to parse whether Cas has any idea what he’s saying, or if he just knows it will piss Dean off. “It’s not—just cause there’s chicks _—_ there’s action—just shut up and watch,” he sputters.

But the scenes unfolding don’t do much to evidence that. In fact, Brad Pitt is shirtless, tucking a hair dryer into his jeans and donning his cowboy hat while Geena Davis gives him googily eyes. And then there’s that slow pan up his shining torso from his unbuttoned jeans, before he pulls Thelma towards him on the bed.

Dean’s face heats up. He doesn’t check to see how Cas is reacting. If he did, he’d know Cas was also blushing, his temporary humanity betraying his usual composure.

Quickly enough the scene is over and Harvey Keitel is explaining something to Christopher McDonald and the tension in the room diffuses.

Cas stays for the rest of the movie.

\--

It turns out, Sam and Eileen _have_ been researching, and they have a few ideas for reversal spells. The bunker has most of the ingredients, but they have to take a trip to find the bones of a “woman of God,” whatever that means. After the door closes behind them, Dean feels a mix of relief and apprehension. He just wants this whole thing to be over. He misses Cas, he can admit it. Maybe he’s still not ready to accept the depth of his feelings, or even the nature of them, but he knows his best friend is acting insane and it’s making him insane too. He’s briefly nostalgic for the time when his worst problem was Gabriel’s weird magic boners.

“Cas?” Dean knock on his door. He’s got two fresh bottles of gin, which he thinks Cas likes, and two glasses in his fingers.

There’s no response.

“I’ve got a peace offering…” he tries, clinking the glasses. “It’s uh…Hendrick’s? That mean anything?”

There’s a short rustling but then silence. Dean huffs, then bellows, “I’m sick of this emo crap, Cas, open the damn door!” 

When nothing else happens, he snaps. He takes a step back, aims, and kicks the door so hard the frame splinters, sending shards flying. Light from the hall spills into the dark room. Cas is sitting cross legged in the bed, palms up on his knees like he was meditating, but he looks at Dean with wide eyes and a gawking mouth.

Dean just grins like an asshole. As usual.

“I brought you a present,” he says cheerfully, holding up the liquor bottles. “Time to have a chat.”

\--

Cas disregards the tumbler and drinks straight from the bottle. It takes about three quarters of it before he relaxes enough to have a conversation.

“So, yeah, once Sam and Eileen get the nun bones or whatever, we’ll get you back in working order and you can stop hiding. I’m not liking this whole Unabomber look on you, Cas,” Dean sips from his glass. The room is lit only by the hall, as all the bulbs in the room are missing, which is enough to see clothes and books and paper scattered around the floor. It’s disconcerting—Cas’s room usually looks so bare you’d mistake it for any of the other untouched ones down the hall.

“I look nothing like Ted Kaczynski,” Cas scowls. He’s got his arms folded, leaning back against the wall. Dean’s taken a seat on the end of the bed, facing out to the room, hoping Cas doesn’t feel too cornered. Then, quietly, Cas admits, “And I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Dean nods, “Yeah, I know, it’s just a—nevermind. I’m just saying. It would probably be easier to deal with if you would just hang out with us. You know?” Dean wonders when _he_ became the person trying to get another guy to open up. _Him_. “We can take cover if you, you know…” He wiggles his fingers in the air like a little explosion.

Cas’s moods have swung around like a rollercoaster he can’t exit. “I’m not in control, Dean,” he spits. “I can’t stop it and I’m—even if I’ve managed it a little bit now, it’s _infuriating_.”

“You call this managing it?” Dean snorts, takes a gulp. “You been pouting in here a week.”

“I’m—I’ve—It seems I can keep myself from flying too far now. And it’s been a few days since I’ve, as you call it, gone ‘Nitro.’” Cas takes another long drink from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He waves Dean off with a bitter look. “So yeah, I’m ‘managing’ it.”

A small flame ignites in the center of his palm, which he quickly shakes out. 

“That’s new,” Dean tilts his head.

“Not really,” Cas shakes his head. “It keeps happening when I get…irritated.”

Dean takes this information in. “Huh.”

“What?” Cas asks pointedly. He doesn’t really want the answer, but he’s starting to feel something from the alcohol, which as he’s thinking about it is probably not a good idea to keep drinking, but then he dismisses that thought with the simple fact that he wants to be drunk. He’s been avoiding alcohol altogether, not knowing what the effects would be on his currently unstable relationship with time and space. But now Dean’s in his room looking _pitying_ , which is especially frustrating because if the roles were reversed, Dean would definitely have a temper tantrum too.

“Just feels like you never use that power,” Dean shrugs.

“It’s just another manifestation of my grace.” Cas looks away. “It’s the same as if I were smiting or healing. It’s just different…intent.”

“So you could be lighting my cigarettes with your finger?” Dean quips.

Cas tilts his head so hard it might fall off. “You’ve never smoked cigarettes.”  
  
“No I—nevermind.” Dean shakes his head, takes another big gulp of gin. He can’t seem to get an actual joke out, just these half formed things that Cas doesn’t have a hope of getting. “So, like, right now you know you have your power, right? Can you control it now? Like, could you smite something if you tried?”

“I don’t know. It feels like…” Cas chews his lip. “Like I don’t have a shell.”  
  
Dean’s not sure what to make of that. “Like you don’t have a shell.”

Cas nods, satisfied that Dean has understood him entirely.

“Would you care to elaborate on that?” Dean retorts, taking another sip.

“Like a turtle shell.” Cas says flatly, but when Dean gives him another hard stare, he continues. “I feel…porous. Usually I feel solid—I can direct the grace where and how I want it. But now…” He tips is head back and takes a long drag from the bottle. “I can’t get a handle on it. My back is exposed.”

_He feels vulnerable_ , Dean understands.

“And also that exposure is hazardous for you. For everyone.”

_And dangerous,_ he amends, nodding. “Yeah, it’s not ideal.” He doesn’t want to offer him bland platitudes—Cas holed himself up in here just to keep Dean safe—but somehow _it’s not ideal_ is all he can come up with. He shuffles just a little closer on the bed. “Look, I’m sorry this is happening. It probably sucks to get your mojo messed with like this.”

“Yes,” Cas nods solemnly, “It does ‘suck.’”

Dean gives him a look. The corner of Cas’s mouth tugs. He tries to shake it away but Dean’s got that little grin where his eyes glitter. And so, satisfied with having almost made Cas smile, Dean stands and starts clearing the lumps of clothes on the floor with his boot, kicking them into piles.

“What are you doing?” Cas asks.

“Just,” Dean sputters. “You know. Clearing a path. This place is a wreck.”

“Stop it,” Cas stands from the bed but doesn’t move further.

“Why?” Dean asks over his shoulder as he starts picking up some books off the floor, arranging them in his arms. “I’m just helping you—”  
  
“I don’t need your help!” Cas shouts, a small blue flame sparking from his hands that he quickly shakes away again.   
  
Dean turns back to Cas. He gives him a hard look, to say, _Yeah, you clearly do._ But he kind of understands what’s happening. Mostly, Cas has been a wavelength of celestial intent the size of a skyscraper crammed into a dorky man suit. But now it’s like he’s unglued. He’s a massive multi-dimensional entity stuffed into a vessel that can’t keep all the energy contained. 

“Cas, buddy,” Dean shifts the weight of the stack of books in his arms and then sets it on his desk. “It’s alright. Let me just—”

Cas disappears. Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling, takes a long drag straight from the other bottle of gin. He’s starting to feel drunk now, which is a relief, frankly. He leans an arm on the stack of books and sees the pipe cleaner contraption again, picks it up to feel the fuzzy cobalt-blue lines.

Cas reappears on the other side of the room.

“Where’d you go?” Dean asks as Cas strides towards him.   
  
“The kitchen. Don’t touch that.” Cas crowds into Dean’s space. Dean looks over his face from a foot away. He’s got determination set in his eyes, mouth a taut line.

“Why?” Dean whispers. Cas stares so hard into his eyes he wonders if his head will catch fire. Dean can’t help but look away—look down at the bizarre object in his hands. He can feel the heat radiating off of Cas, like he’s vibrating with rage. Or…something.

“It’s…mine,” Cas mutters lowly as he shifts his weight.

“I thought I made it?” Dean looks back up into Cas’s eyes again. It suddenly feels very, very important.

“You gave it to me,” Cas growls, grabbing Dean’s wrist and squeezing until he drops it into Cas’s other hand. “I’d like to keep it. You don’t even remember it.”

“Ow, dude.” Dean waves his hand to get blood flowing into his hand. He gives Cas a _What gives?_ look.

Cas just fixes a bend in the wire and places the halo back on the desk. Dean hasn’t had time to think about what might’ve happened or what weird embarrassing things he did, much less what the hell this thing is or means.

“What’s your problem, man? I’m trying to help. I get it, you’re pissed and you’re worried about your power. But I’m not the enemy here!” Dean explodes, because he cannot deal with being confused or afraid so he converts it all into anger. “We all want your mojo back, ok? We’re working on it! You’ll be smiting baddies again in no time!”

When Cas faces Dean again, his eyes are glowing ice blue.

“Oh fuck, not again!” Dean yelps and covers his eyes with his arm.

“No, wait, I can—” Cas grits his teeth, clenches his eyes shut. When no explosion happens, Dean peeks out from behind his flannel sleeve. Cas is just standing there with his eyes glowing, the light faintly pulsing.  
  
“Woah,” Dean breathes, lowering his arm. “That’s…freaky.”

It’s also entrancing. But he doesn’t say that. He takes a step closer to Cas.

Cas shakes his head as if to shake the grace out of his eyes. “You should just leave. Until Sam and Eileen get back.”

“Dude, you just controlled it!” Dean chuckles. “That was awesome.”

“I don’t want to—”

“You’re not gonna hurt me, Cas, it’s ok.” He puts a hand on Cas’s shoulder. But Cas swats it away harshly. Dean clicks his teeth and rolls his eyes. “What’s with you?”

Cas gives him a stone glare, then suddenly shoves him hard in the middle of his chest.

“What the fuck, man?” Dean’s had enough. He shoves Cas back. “You got issues!”

Cas’s shoulders raise up to his ears, his eyes glassy and dark. A muscle twitches in his jaw. He takes a step and with both hands pushes Dean so hard he stumbles back, trips and falls on to the bed, and ends up leaning back on his elbows.

“I do have issues, _Dean_.” Cas steps towards him. “I’m sorry not _useful_ to the Winchesters right now, but I’ve got my own problems. And I’m tired of your—your—” He’s towering over the bed, his feet framed by Dean’s. The gin is blurring the edges of his words. “You get…you drink and you get… _close_ and then you—you—” He bites the sentence off, looks down. “I’m tired of this. Why don’t you just skip to the part where you leave and let me just…” Cas sets his jaw hard, looking down at Dean gaping on the bed in shock, “let me be.”

Dean has no idea what Cas is saying. He has not examined his own behaviors in that way, hasn’t seen the pattern that Cas picked up on years and years ago. He could blame it on gin, but it seems more like an exhaust valve has opened to vent something that’s been building in pressure for a decade. He’s still leaned back on his elbows, Cas hovering over him. If he narrowed his stance, his thighs would bump Cas’s legs. He ignores that thought. 

“I—I don’t…” Dean starts but trails off. 

Cas looks over the shock on Dean’s face, then by the stack of books on the desk, and softens just a little. He backs away to give Dean room to stand, which he does slowly.

“What’re you saying?” Dean asks, but Cas just grinds his teeth. He doesn’t entirely understand why he’s got his tail between his legs. He turns away, starts towards the door, and mutters so quietly Cas almost doesn’t hear, “I don’t care if you’re _useful_ , Cas. I just want you to be okay.”

“Well I’m not either,” Cas responds somberly behind him. It has nothing to do with his grace. “Please go.”

Dean looks back over his shoulder. Cas isn’t swelling with rage anymore. Now he just seems…dejected. He glances around the room again and turns back to grab the bottle of gin still on the desk. He stops and gives another once-over of the pipe cleaners. His hand lifts to touch it again, but he stops himself, just leaves his hand hovering in the air.

Cas disappears and reappears so close to Dean that his hair tickles his cheek. He reaches for the sculpture at the same time Dean wobbles on his feet and grabs Cas’s shoulder for leverage. Then, as if thrown, Dean is suddenly reeling backward, losing his balance, scrambling for a grip on the desk, chair, anything.

The reflection of Christmas lights in Cas’s eyes. The warmth of his laughter, and the wrinkles emerging in the bridge of his nose and around his eyes along with it. His soft black hair cradling the halo as Dean leans in, tenderly, for a kiss. He remembers not just what happened, but the feelings, too. How something was loose and bouncy in his chest, something tight in his throat.

Cas seems to understand exactly what just transpired. When Dean’s eyes stop oscillating as if in REM sleep, he looks back at Cas with…with…horror. Cas feels grace like vomit in the back of his mouth.   
  
Before Dean can say a single word, Cas disappears, leaving Dean to wonder if it was an accident or on purpose. He doesn’t reappear.


	8. Chapter 8

_So,_ Dean paces around his room, _I’m gay_.

He shakes his head, knowing that’s not right. Whatever all this bullshit is, he still likes women. Well, he likes women’s bodies, that’s for sure. But he hasn’t had a real connection with a woman since Lisa, and frankly, that was nothing compared to the feelings he has about this. About Cas.

He’s not gay, but he never spent a year in the woods with Lisa, trusting her with his life to kill whatever monster might happen on them, while he gets a half hour of sleep. He didn’t save the world over and over again with her. She didn’t disobey direct orders and leave behind everything she ever knew to save him. She never saw his soul, like literally saw it, and if she did, he’s not sure she would stay. Not like Cas did. Like he does.

But Dean’s never wanted to kiss a man before. Even ones he knows are attractive. Ones he’s…attracted to? Is that it? Has he always been this way and never once considered it?

_Am I fucking gay?_ Dean thinks, panicking. _Am I approaching forty and realizing I’m gay and all those women are just a fluke? Have I been closeted for my whole life?_

He drinks more gin. He pulls out his stash of skin mags from the back of his closet. He understands, flipping through them, that he’s definitely not gay. He drops them back to their hiding spot and lays down on top of the covers of the bed.

He goes over everything that’s happened since Christmas. But didn’t it start before that? With Gabriel’s prank? _Did that fucking prick make me gay?_ Dean thinks, absurdly, having already decided he’s not gay. Not…fully gay. Something else maybe. Straight, except for…

He remembers the sparring match, Cas a heavy weight on his ass, pushing him into the floor, holding his arms down. He convinced himself it was leftover Gabriel spell. Except that was months ago, and he’s laying here in bed now, touching the spot on his sternum that Cas shoved. Picturing Cas towering over him with determination and intensity. It stirs something. Specifically something in his jeans.

He remembers Cas in Purgatory, during the long journey towards the portal. His fuzzy beard and his total devotion. His steadfast strength and his unwavering resolve to protect him. And his enthralling blue eyes always fixing on Dean like a magnet.

Hadn’t he wanted to kiss him then, too? Didn’t he admit that to himself? When he found him by the creek, covered in dirt, looking so…uncomfortable, in retrospect. But that moment he caught sight of him, he pictured walking up, grabbing him into a hug, and then kissing him. He pictured it clearly and then. And then Cas didn’t hug him back.

And then everything. And then Dean just…stepped through the portal and shot back to Earth. And remembered around it, the way he did Cas’s last words before he pushed him away and the door shut.

\--

Dean is still in the process of having his great revelation when Sam and Eileen return.

“Dean? You seen Cas?” Sam asks from the hall. “We got everything ready in the library.”

“Uh, yeah—I mean, no.” Dean gets out of bed, wipes his hand across the back of his neck. “He uh—he disappeared again. Like forty minutes ago. Hasn’t been back.”

“What?” Sam looks at him incredulously. They start down the hall to Cas’s room. “What happened?”

“Nothing, we were just talking. He was kind of shorting out a bit,” Dean looks a bit sheepish but Sam doesn’t know why, “he was like bouncing around, had these flames in his hands.”

“Shit.” When they come to Cas’s room, the door is still open. Sam surveys the scene for a moment. “Where do you think he is?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Dean answers honestly, leaning against the door frame. “Croatia?”

“I hope not,” Sam mutters. “I hope he’s not stuck somewhere.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean says. They stand a moment. “Think we can do a locating spell?”  
  
Sam’s shoulders sag, his face falls a bit. Still, he says, “I’ll check the inventory.”

Dean shakes his head, “No, no, wait. You go shower and eat, you guys just dug up a grave. I’ll take care of it. I shoulda been on it already.”

\--

Dean gathers myrrh and holy water but realizes quickly that he’ll need to look up the sigil and incantation. Usually Cas does it. So he looks in the library for the books about angels, how to locate or summon them, but he can’t find what he needs. He spends an hour leafing through what’s in the library before he sits up and remembers: the stack on Cas’s desk.

Once he’s in Cas’s room, though, he forgets what he was doing. _So why don’t you just skip to the part where you leave_. Dean shakes his head, kicks a t-shirt. _And let me just…let me be._ He heaves a full-body sigh. The stupid halo is on the floor; Cas must’ve dropped it when he disappeared.

He picks it up, thumbs the fur, then places it back on the desk. Then, he gathers the piles of clothes into a laundry bag, picks up the dishes hidden under the desk, stacks more books neatly by the end table, sweeps bits of broken light bulbs into the trash. He brings the book on summoning angels with him to the laundry room and leafs through it, wondering if Cas still counts enough as an angel for these spells to work.

\--

“You probably just didn’t say it right,” Sam says, grabbing the book.

“I said it how he says it!” Dean whines. “Look, its hard to say it wrong, every word is one syllable.”

“Maybe it only works for angels,” Eileen points out. The specific sigil they used is one Cas always performed. Somehow the answer would just come to him. He would paint the symbols and chant in Enochian and then he just looked off into the distance and knew where the target was.

“Well, fuck.” Dean grabs the book back from Sam, who makes a face, and starts leafing through too fast to actually see anything. “What else we got? What about that tracking spell we did on that witch?”

“The map thing?” Sam considers this.

“Yeah, we still got all those ingredients, right?” Dean nods, dropping the book on the table. He runs off, returns with a handful of maps, a thick stone bowl filled with dried leaves and bones, and a small talisman hanging from a string.

Then, after slicing his hand and crushing the ingredients, Dean holds the talisman over the map table. He chants a phrase in Latin and the amulet magnetizes to a spot in the middle of the United States. Kansas, in fact. “Alright, so the angel’s in the in-field.”

Sam and Eileen roll their eyes in unison.

“Toto, we’re…still in Kansas?” Dean tries, to simultaneous groans and grimaces.

He repeats the process with a paper map of Kansas. But the amulet snaps to exactly where the bunker would be.

“Uh…” Sam says.

Eileen looks around the room suspiciously. “Have we checked everywhere?”  
  
“Yes, I checked every room.” Dean shakes his head, then the talisman. “Is this thing broken?”

“The thing about angels,” Gabriel says, stepping out from behind Sam and startling everyone, “is that we’re pretty hard to find if we _don’t want_ to be found.” 

“Jesus goddamn Christ,” Dean growls, clutching his chest. He takes one aggressive step towards Gabriel, who gives him a look to say, _Really?_

Dean clenches his fists.   
  
“Relax, bros. I brought you a gift!” he says, pulling a glass jar that is way bigger than his pocket out from his suit pants. It’s sloshing with a dark green juice that looks like pond scum and dirt. He shrugs, “It’s a reversal potion. Might help Cassie with his electrical issues.” He sets the jar on the table. “But that’s not why I’m here.”  
  
“It’s not?” Dean asks, folding his arms.

“Nope,” Kali says from behind Dean, startling them all again.   
  
“How do you people keep getting in here?!” Dean roars. “Do we have _no_ warding left?”

“ _Kali?_ ” Sam squeaks. Eileen’s eyes go wide as saucers.  
  
“Winchesters,” she nods, looking satisfied with their obvious alarm. “Still searching for the legendary Kodandam, Sam?”  
  
Sam nods, gulping. Dean shoots him a glare, but he just holds his hands up and shrugs.

“It’s a magic bow,” Gabriel explains to Dean, mercifully, “of the demon-killing variety.”

“What—so that ‘historical context’ you and Cas—but why would—We have _guns_ , Sam! _Guns!_ ” Dean sputters. Sam has no justification other than he is a huge nerd and thought it would be funny to kill a demon with an arrow. So he and Cas summoned a Hindu destroyer of worlds to look for it, sue him.

“Those rakshasa you encountered,” Kali focuses the whole group again, “I need to know exactly where and when. I believe they’re part of a prophecy. One involving…a friend.” She keeps her face a stone wall. “She is…misguided. I’d like to reason with her, but I have to find her first.”  
  
“Why should we help you?” Dean asks.

“ _Dean_.” Sam shoots him a look. Eileen looks mostly lost.

“I literally just brought you a cure for your boyfriend’s premature e-grace-ulation, you ungrateful—” Gabriel starts but Kali waves her hand and he quiets.

“I believe if you help me find her, I can prevent the thirty more nests that have yet to hatch. She is…look it’s a long story, do you really care?”

“I mean, I’m kind of interested…” Sam mutters at the same time Dean says, “Not really.”

“Normally I wouldn’t care about any of this. But,” Kali shares a meaningful look with Gabriel, before fixing pointed looks at both Dean and Sam, “…well, you know. _Family_.”

\--

Dean presses his fingers into his eyelids until he sees spots.

“Okay, so. You’re telling me this Durga chick, she’s trying to unleash these, these rakshasa demons as revenge. For—”

“It’s not a personal quest. She’s believes she’s acting righteously.” Kali tries to explain again. “It’s a prophecy. I just need to find her before she fulfills it.”  
  
“We need to know exactly where you’ve encountered the rakshasa,” Gabriel says, holding out a map and a marker. “And we’ll go on a little treasure hunt. Then we’ll be outta your hair.”

“And why exactly do _you_ care about this again?” Dean asks.

“What?” Gabriel holds his hands out. “I care. About…the Earth. And uh, humans.” Dean and Sam both give him a sharp glare. He glances at Kali behind them before he shrugs and breaks into a devious grin. “Okay, what can I say? I got it bad.”

Dean looks back and forth between the two of them sharing a fond look. He kind of wants to gag. Sam just nods like he’s putting puzzle pieces together. Eileen grabs the marker from Dean and starts marking the map.   
  
“Why here?” she asks. “America?”

“You think it’s only happening here?” Kali raises an eyebrow. She stands with her hands on her hips, waiting.   
  
“What about Cas?” Dean turns back to Gabriel. “He’s missing, can you get a read on him?”

Gabriel pulls his mouth into a tight line. “No. But he’s been kinda difficult to locate for a while, in case you haven’t noticed. Angel-proof tattoos and all that.”

“Right, right,” Dean mutters, shaking his head. “Just thought you were an _arch_ angel is all.”

“Don’t try and bait me, you’re not good at it,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. Kali circles over to Eileen, who is holding the marker up and gesturing to the map. She takes the marker and carefully draws three more X’s, revealing a circle of targets. Kali and Gabriel share a worried look.  
  
“What, those are other—”

“She might still be here,” Kali points to a gap in the shape. Gabriel nods gravely. They disappear without so much as a goodbye.

Dean, Sam, and Eileen exchange exasperated glances.

“I guess we’re just…hoping they take care of it?” Sam asks skeptically.

“I mean…we _could_ try to meet them there,” Eileen points a finger to the spot that Kali did. “If they’re saying there’s more to kill…”

“What about Cas? We just leave him a note in case he comes back?” Dean shakes his head. He lets out a huff of air. “God. Let’s just…can we get some sleep first before we go on a goose chase?”

Sam and Eileen nod in unison with obvious relief.

\--

Dean goes completely still with his hand on the knob of his bedroom door. It’s been a long day. He’s had like four different big revelations. He’s exhausted but—he thinks of Thelma saying to Louise, _I don’t remember ever feeling this awake_.

That’s when it occurs to him: the locating spell. It pointed to the bunker. The _underground_ bunker.

He turns and starts walking, then sort of jogging down the hall, up the stairs, through the doors, up another set of stairs, and through the door. As soon as he pops out, a gust of wind pulls goose bumps out of his skin. He’s wearing a thin t-shirt and a flannel, and it’s not quite enough. It’s a chilly spring night, and the creaking metal of the hatch door cuts into the soft bed of cricket song. But Cas doesn’t turn around.

He’s up on the hillside, leaning his elbows against a rusted and forgotten handrail, shoulders hunched, looking over the field off to the side of the building. From across the way, Dean can see his puffs of breath.

So he swings the door shut behind him and dusts his hands on his legs. He takes one purposeful breath. He doesn’t have a plan. He’s making it up as he goes.

\--

“Come here often?” Dean blurts as he leans against the railing just a few inches from Cas’s elbow. He struggles to suppress a cringe. _Really?_ Was that _really_ how he was starting this conversation?

Cas turns his head, squints at him. Dean’s faltering grin stabilizes, his eyes shine with moonlight. Cas’s mouth twitches. He turns away, shakes his head to hide the smile.

“Gabriel brought some swamp water for you,” Dean turns to lean on his elbows too. “Should help with your mojo.”

Cas nods and hums.   
  
“Yeah, he thinks it’s a witch, maybe? Ring any bells?”

Cas frowns, shakes his head. The insects sing from the hills around the building.

“He uh, brought Kali,” he nods, “Looks like they’re…involved. Again. And man, those two together? Kinda scared of what they’ll get into. That’s too much power.”

“Yes, they have…some regrettable qualities in common,” Cas mutters, surveying the night-washed field. “But I have a hunch it’ll be good, actually. Symbiotic, maybe.”

Dean chews on this a moment. “So you uh…you hiding out up here all night, then?”  
  
Cas gives him a weary look before turning back to the landscape ahead of them. “I just needed some time alone.”  
  
“Yeah, well, could you send a text next time?” Dean huffs, “Kinda freaked us out again. Thought you might be stuck halfway across the world with no way to get back.”

“Sorry. My phone is inside,” Cas says dully, as if that’s an excuse.

“Right,” Dean chews his bottom lip. He pushes off the railing and spins on his heel to lean his elbows back as he faces the other direction. “So I guess next time you show me a memory about a kiss I blacked out, and then fuck off without a single word, I’ll just twiddle my thumbs ‘til you come back.”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” Cas bites. Dean rolls his eyes so hard they might fall out of his skull. He turns to face Cas, red blooming in his cheeks and nose from the cold.

“Look, I didn’t—” He starts, but Cas cuts him off with, “You don’t have to say anything.”

Dean clicks his tongue, suppresses a frustrated shout.

“Alcohol impairs the information processing center used to inhibit impulses. I’m under no illusions about your sexual orientation or desires. You don’t have to say it. I’m…” Cas trails off, flinching.

Dean waits for more but when Cas just looks awkward, he says, “Ah, I get it. Can’t just fuck off when you get uncomfortable, huh?”

He tries not to smirk. Cas gives him a pointed glare before looking away again. He’s not so good with the eye contact without his mojo either, it seems. Dean starts again.

“Look, man. I don’t know—I thought I was—I thought I _knew_ —” 

“You said Gabriel brought a potion?” Cas cuts him off again, turning to walk away. Dean grabs his arm instinctively, spins him around to face him.

“Can you stop? God, you’re insufferable!” he shouts. Cas looks unrepentant, so he continues, "I been worrying about you and you’re just, just sulking up here. More goddamn sulking. You know what, maybe you do need that swamp juice, I think whatever spell you got has been making you fucking cuckoo for cocoa puffs.”  
  
Cas doesn’t need to say _I don’t understand that reference_ because it’s written all over his face. Dean just throws his hands in the air, mouths the words _Oh My God_ without a sound. His breath fogs a cloud between them.  
  
“Fine, fine, let’s get baby his bottle so he can stop with…all this bullshit.” Dean gestures vaguely around the roof. “But you gotta talk to me sometime, man. Cause this ain’t working for either of us. And I…” He bites his lip. “I got something to say.”

\--

Cas takes big ugly gulps from the mason jar, dribbling green sludge down his chin and onto his coat. It’s like 3 AM and Dean is somewhere between collapsing and running laps. He scrubs his hand over his face, sits on the edge of the table, waits.   
  
Cas tips the jar and swallows the last of it with a loud gulp, followed by a ten-second-long burp.

“Dude,” Dean says.

Cas drops the jar onto the table and stretches his hands, making fists. He lifts his arms, slowly flaps like a chicken.   
  
“I don’t think it—”

Then, abruptly, Cas’s eyes turn ice blue. He goes stiff as a board. A wave of light glowing under his skin passes from head to toe. Dean straightens with alarm as Cas’s mouth quivers soundlessly.

“Cas? You okay?”  
  
Then, as quickly as it appeared, his body releases the tension, the light subsides from his eyes, and he blinks dark ocean blue. “That was…unusual.”

“Are you better?” Dean takes a step closer, trying to see if there’s any lingering glow. The sludge on his chin and coat is gone, and so is his stubble. His hair is neater than before. Dean relaxes just a smidge.

But Cas furrows his brow. “I—I still—I can’t fly. I’m still…bound, somehow.” His face twists into a furious grimace. Dean rolls back on his heels as Cas glowers and stomps past him, out of the room.

“Cas, hey, wait!” Dean runs after him, grabs him by the elbow. “Maybe it takes some time to kick in?”  
  
“No, it felt like it _worked_ ,” he tries to explain. “And then something…locked it again.”  
  
“Locked it?”  
  
“Yes, or…short-circuited. Blew a fuse, so to speak.”

“Shit, man.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, casts his eyes around the room. “Shit. What does that mean? How do we get a new fuse?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says lowly. His shoulders sag, drained of fury. He looks around for a minute before adding, “I’m going to my room.”  
  
“Wait, but I—Can we talk? First?” Dean feels like a teen girl and cringes.

Weariness and resignation fall over Cas’s face. Dean tries to beam the words _It’s not bad_ into his head, but he just looks away.

“I’d like to…rest. If that’s alright. All this instability in my grace is strenuous.” Cas does have a sheen to his skin and the bags under his eyes are bruise-dark. Only a real asshole would stop this guy from getting some sleep.

“Oh. I…Yeah, okay.” Dean nods, “Tomorrow, then.”

He waits until he hears the click of the door before walking down the hall to his own room.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

“So, you summon any other gods searching for magic crossbows?” Dean asks over the steam from his coffee. He holds it with two hands up to his face, blowing on it.

Sam rolls his eyes before shoveling egg into his mouth. Eileen puts down her toast to ask, “What’s the story there?”

“Tweedle-dee and tweedle-Cas decided to summon Kali, a _Hindu god_ , apparently to ask directions to a piece of equipment _we don’t even need_.” Dean sips from his coffee, side-eyes Sam.

“It’s not about _need_ , Dean,” Sam gestures with his fork. “You’re telling me you never went out of your way for a special item? Hm?”

Dean can think of about ten things (weapons, collectibles, pornos), none of which he wants to bring up at breakfast.

“Besides, Kali seems to have a soft spot for Cas. I don’t know if it’s cause he’s Gabriel’s brother, or what. She wasn’t even that mad we summoned her.”  
  
“You…are a…moron,” Eileen signs emphatically, sharing a look with Dean.

“Right?” Dean says.

“Hey Cas, how you feeling?” Sam asks as Cas pads in, barefoot. He’s wearing his coat, but he’s got striped pajama pants and a large white t-shirt underneath. The three of them watch as he fumbles through the cabinet for a mug, pours himself a coffee, and sits down at the table next to Dean. He holds the mug up to his lips, then looks around at the three watching faces.

“Huh?”

“How you feeling?” Sam repeats. “I thought…the potion Gabriel brought…”

“Didn’t work,” Cas says, lowering the cup to the table. “Or, it wasn’t enough.”

They wait for more explanation, but Cas isn’t really in the mood. Frankly, Dean is surprised he came out at all—he almost acclimated to Cas scurrying around in the dark and avoiding all social interaction.

“So you’re still…” Sam trails off.

“’On the fritz’?” Cas does the finger quotes. “Yeah. Seems so.” He takes a tentative sip from the steaming coffee. It burns just a little, and he can feel every second of it.

“So what do we do now?” Sam asks. “We should try the other spell, with the nun’s bones.”

“I don’t know. We can try but whatever got me must be very powerful. I imagine we’ll have to kill whoever did it to reverse the effects. But we have nothing to go on,” Cas grumbles.

“Well, you know of anyone that might have a grudge?” Dean questions, waving a sausage link on his fork.

“Dean, I’m an incredibly powerful multi-dimensional being that defied Heaven and wiped out a generation of angels out of regrettable hubris, all to assist the Winchesters in hunting monsters on Earth.” He takes a sip from his mug. “I have too many enemies to count.”

“Yeah, yeah. Quit bragging,” Dean chomps on the link.

Then, a loud crash from somewhere else in the building. The four of them go rigid. Dean pulls a knife out from his waistband. Sam grabs a butcher’s knife and hands it to Eileen, then grabs a long meat fork for himself. Cas looses the angel blade from his sleeve. They exchange grave looks and head out into the hall to investigate.

\--

Kali holds her hands out in front of her, flames like whips flying from her palms. The young woman strapped to the chair stares defiantly with her chin jutted up. Strands of black hair are plastered to her face with sweat and blood. Gabriel is standing to the side with his arms folded over his chest, bored.

“The hell is going on here?” Dean bellows upon discovering the scene in the dungeon.

“We needed a place to talk,” Kali shouts over her shoulder.

“Your place just happens to have a special chair with magic handcuffs,” Gabriel explains, inspecting his nails. “We might have to come back here alone,” he waggles his eyebrows at Kali, who rolls her eyes and redirects her gaze to the captive.

“Disgusting,” the woman spits. “I can’t believe you lay with an angel.”  
  
“Durga, you’ve literally lain with angels, like fifty,” Kali points out.  
  
“No,” she tilts her head, “I’ve lain with _deva_. They’re different.”  
  
“Oh great. You know that’s just racist,” Gabriel pops a hand to his hip.

“Durga. Please.” Kali’s whips recede into her hands. “This isn’t you. You’re a goddess of _protection._ Your divine wrath is to be used for the liberation of the oppressed. Not…not this.”

Sam, Eileen, and Cas crowd behind Dean, trying to get a view.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Durga spits. “I _am_ protecting.”  
  
“You’re fulfilling a prophecy that’s not _yours_ ,” Kali growls, stepping closer.

“What’s _mine_ ,” she grits her teeth, “is what I _take_.” She struggles against the clamps around her wrists to no avail.

“What happened to you?” Kali’s voice softens just a little. Durga looks away, around the damp, dingy room. “Who did this to you?”

“No one _did_ anything. I _did_ this!” she shrieks, shaking the chair and seemingly the floor with it. A puff of dust crumbles from the ceiling.

Kali’s hands glow red hot. She balls them into fists and turns on her heel, storming through the door. The four of them make way for her, and then Gabriel, who follows, shutting the heavy metal door with a conclusive _thunk_.

“So we’re just keeping a deity strapped in the dungeon?” Dean asks.  
  
“Something is _wrong_ ,” Kali says to Gabriel. “She’s not…that’s not _her._ It is, but she’s…she’s different.”

“We know she’s working with someone. There’s no way she could’ve been in Omaha and Memphis at the same time. Unless that’s a thing she can do?” He posits, but Kali shakes her head.

“We have to find them, and fast. The warding here is not enough to contain her for long. She’s wounded but she’ll heal.” Kali paces the room. 

“Omaha? Where Cas went haywire?” Dean asks. “Which isn’t better, by the way. That potion was a dud.”

“What?” Gabriel steps towards Cas, examining. “That was primo juice, man. Had it specially made.”

“It seemed to work momentarily,” Cas shakes his head, “but then I felt it…’short circuit’ again.”

“Huh,” Gabriel nods. He grabs Cas’s chin and inspects his face, squeezes his cheeks until he opens his mouth. “So someone’s still got their fork in your socket. And it happened in Omaha, with the rakshasa nest.”

Gabriel lifts and eyebrow to Kali. She gives him a weary shrug and a nod.

“And you guys killed all the rakshasa?” Kali turns to Sam and Eileen.

“As far as we know,” Eileen signs.   
  
“They’ve probably moved on,” Gabriel tightens his lips into a stern line. “And we picked Durgy up in Waco which means—“  
  
“Colorado Springs,” Kali finishes. They both nod grimly.

“Wait, wait!” Dean yells, sensing their impending flight. “Don’t just flap off and leave us here with a pissed off god? Maybe?”

“We don’t have _time_ for this,” Kali glowers, her eyes burning red. She disappears from the room.

Gabriel shrugs and suggests, “You boys stay here and keep an eye on Durgy? Make sure she doesn’t disappear?”

“How are we supposed to do that?” Sam asks, incredulously.   
  
“I don’t know, how am I supposed to find the bastard that poisoned my girlfriend’s sister?” He gestures at Cas as an afterthought. “And my brother? We need to find them before they can get back to Durga and fuck off again, or we’ll be doing this dance all over again on another continent.”

“Well shit, man, can’t we do the map thing again? Or something?” Dean throws his hands in the air.

“We don’t know who we’re looking for!” Gabriel barks. “We know they’re powerful enough to bind an angel, and maybe brainwash a goddess of war, and that’s it!”

“Can we interrogate Durga?” Eileen interjects.

“Be my guest,” Gabriel holds his hands out. “But if she’s not gonna spill to Kali, I doubt some arrogant humans could get it out of her.”

Eileen readies her knife, spins the handle, and opens the door. The dungeon appears empty.

“Ruh roh,” Gabriel says and disappears.

“Well, shit!” Dean yells. The four of them look around the room with alertness.

“We have to go to Colorado Springs,” Cas says decisively. He hurries out of the room with his coat swishing behind him.

\--

“Okay, this is something weird,” Sam finally says after two hours of typing on his laptop in the passenger seat. Eileen perks up from the back seat, tries to lean over Sam’s shoulder to see what’s on the screen. “I don’t know if it’s what we’re looking for, but there were some…cow mutilations.”

“Cow mutilations.” Dean deadpans, tightening his grip on the wheel. He looks at Cas in the rearview, who’s just staring out the window, a muscle flexing in his taut jaw.

“ _A small farm found six of their ten cows dead early Thursday morning, carved with satanic symbols_ ,” he reads, holding it up so Eileen can see. “And it says the cows were missing their hearts.”

“Okay, that is weird,” Dean nods.

“So I guess we head towards the farm? See if we can pick up anything?” Sam asks.

“Better than just heading to the middle of town,” Dean shrugs.

Cas stays silent in the back seat, grinding his teeth.

\--

By the time they make it to the farm near Colorado Springs, the sun has gone down. Dean pulls the impala down the dirt path to the house, where a porch light flicks on. A man steps out holding a shotgun in one hand, pointed to the sky, to show he’s armed. The impala rolls to a halt.

“Uh oh. Doesn’t look friendly,” Dean mutters.

“Let me go,” Eileen says from the back. “I’m disarming. I’ll say I’m a…a journalist.”

“I’m coming with,” Sam says authoritatively. Eileen’s about to protest, but the man on the porch waves his hands in the air to say _Well?_ So they pop out of the car and walk up to the porch with their hands in front of them.

Dean looks in the rearview again. Cas chews his teeth, the sharp point of his jaw popping.

“You alright back there?” Dean asks gruffly.

“Yeah,” Cas mutters, not looking up.   
  
“You sure? Cause it looks like you’re trying to grind your teeth to dust.”  
  
Cas stills his jaw but keeps biting down. He glances up to the rearview, then back down to his lap.   
  
Dean sighs. Everything’s such a production. He grabs the seat back and twists his neck around to face Cas in the back seat.

“Man, I—I’ll keep trying. Don’t act like I won’t.”

Cas puffs a breath out, looks out the window. Dean sighs again, swings his knees onto the seat and fully turns around, says, “Look at me Cas!” and reaches out to grab his lapel. Cas finally looks up at him like he’s grown a second head. He slinks back, and his utter bewilderment pulls a smile wide across Dean’s face.

“What are you doing?” Cas snipes.

“Getting your attention,” Dean chuckles. “I’m tired of being ignored.”

Cas clicks his tongue. “You’re exhibiting the behavior of an adolescent human in the early stages of socialization.”

Dean looks off for a moment. “ _You’re_ calling _me_ a child? _You_? Mr. Backseat Brooder? Sir Sulks-a-lot?”

Cas swats Dean’s hand away. “I’m just waiting until we find what we need. What am I supposed to do? I can’t fly to the field and examine the cows. I can’t find Gabriel or Kali. I’m sorry I’m not—“  
  
“If you say useful again, so help me…” Dean mutters. Cas gives him a sharp glare.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Cas says honestly.

“I don’t know, man!” Dean answers honestly.

They stare at each other in the darkness: Dean folded in two with his hands perched on the seat back, Cas still pressed into the corner.

“I’m just—I’m just—I’m trying to…” Dean tries to imbue his look with as much meaning as he can. He gestures between the two of them. But Cas just shakes his head, waiting.

The doors on the right of the car swing open simultaneously.   
  
“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam whines. “Do you know how crazy you look to a farmer with a shotgun?”

“That was awkward,” Eileen admits, crawling into the backseat. “But we can come back tomorrow to see the cows.”  
  
“Yeah but we’re not bringing you two,” Sam grumbles as Dean settles back into his seat and puts the car in reverse to back down the road.

“If this has something to do with my power, I should be there to examine it,” Cas asserts.

“That guy barely agreed to let us come through. We’ll take pictures,” Sam says. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

\--

Dean pushes two fingers deep into a knot in his neck, regretting his generous offer to sleep on the cot. Sam went ahead and got a double for them before Dean could make an excuse for an extra room. He was hoping to get Cas alone to talk, because he’s a little school girl with a little school girl crush. But instead Cas fell asleep on the bed halfway through _The Terminator_ and Dean stayed up finishing the beers from the cooler while Sam and Eileen researched.

Now the light is bright and Dean’s got a mild hangover throbbing in his eyes.

“Guh,” he moans intelligently, swinging his legs over the edge. He kneads at more knots in his bare shoulders.  
  
“Good morning, Dean,” Cas says from the kitchenette table behind him. “Sam and Eileen are investigating the cow mutilations. They said we should wait here.”

“Awesome,” he says flatly, standing and stretching. Cas glances over and Dean notices his eyes sweeping over his exposed torso. He bites his cheek so as not to smirk. “You want to get breakfast? Think there’s a diner down the block.”

“Okay,” Cas nods. He keeps forgetting he should eat while his grace is low, but luckily Dean is almost always focused on food. He stands, ready to leave immediately.

“Wait, wait, let me get showered and dressed.” Dean slips past Cas and into the bathroom. He squirts toothpaste onto a brush and pokes his head out the doorway. “Hey, you think we’re on the right track?”

“With?” Cas looks over.  
  
“The cows. You think they’re, you know… _it_?” He gestures with the toothbrush before sticking it in his mouth.

“I believe there are…some summoning rituals that involve…the hearts of sacred animals,” Cas says, watching Dean distractedly. He takes a few steps closer. “Other than that…I don’t know.”

“Hm.” Dean nods. “Summoning who?”  
  
Cas just shakes his head. Dean shrugs and steps back into the bathroom to finish brushing. When he looks up, Cas is looming in the doorway. Dean holds his gaze in the mirror. Then he makes the conscious decision to slowly spit the toothpaste in the sink in a manner that anyone (but Dean) might describe as pornographic. Neon blue flashes in Cas’s eyes as he takes an audible gulp, then blinks and shakes his head. The lamps in the bedroom flicker out silently.

“Woah, you alright?” Dean asks, turning to him.  
  
“It’s fine, I—I can—” Cas takes a step backward. “I can handle it,” he says finally, straightening his spine and squaring his jaw. Dean bites his cheek and watches the light pulse for another moment before dissipating.

“Hmm,” Dean narrows his eyes. “Why don’t you sit down again. I’ll just be a minute.”

He closes the door and turns the shower as hot as it will go.

When he opens the door again, steam billows out behind him. His hair is ruffled and slick, with a few droplets streaming down the back of his neck. One rough towel is wrapped around his hips, and he’s got another in his hand, patting at his neck. Cas glances over from his spot on the bed and looks away quickly, going rigid.

“Forgot my stuff,” Dean explains, dripping his way to his duffel bag. He glances at Cas, who is alternating between staring at the ceiling and the TV (that’s off). He shakes his head to suppress a chuckle before slipping boxers on underneath the towel.

Feeling confident, he drops the towel to the floor with a soft ruffle, then steps his feet into his jeans and pulls them up, staring at the red blooming in the backs of Cas’s ears. “Hey, can we uh…can we talk about something?”

Cas chances a glance back at Dean. He’s at least got pants on now, but there are still droplets of water scattered around his torso, catching the light and highlighting his shape. He can tell Dean is amused by his uneasiness. He feels mainly taunted.

“About what?” Cas asks wearily as Dean steps closer, holding a t-shirt in his hands. He sits down next to him and slips the black fabric over his head, sending a tiny spray of droplets from his hair over Cas’s cheek. Cas identifies pine needle in the warm scent wafting over him.  
  
“About um…” he looks over Cas’s face from a foot away, shifts his weight. “About…Christmas.”

Cas swallows hard and looks down. Here it comes. “Okay.”  
  
“I just…” Dean starts. He looks around the room for a minute, mouthing words that don’t come. He’s never been good with words. Or feelings. Or tact. He’s more of a do-er than a say-er.

So, he does something.

He lifts his hand to Cas’s chin and gently tilts his face up. When they make eye contact, Cas looks forlorn and confused. Dean tries to smile, but his heart is thumping and he hasn’t been this nervous since he was a kid. But fear doesn’t stop Dean from action—ask any of the hundreds of paranormal entities he’s personally vanquished. _Besides_ , he tells himself, _there’s nothing to be afraid of here_. His gaze drifts down briefly before he leans in and presses his lips to Cas’s.

But Cas leans back, gasping, his eyes glowing. “What are you—” he chokes out as he scrambles away from Dean. He stands up, pushing his palms into his eyes, and bumps into the TV stand. “Stop _doing_ that!” Cas hisses.

This is not how Dean imagined this going. Not that Dean thought ahead at all.

He stands also, holding his palms in front of him in surrender. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t—“

Cas pulls his hands away from his head and stares at Dean sternly, his eyes pulsing with neon light. “I _told_ you,” he takes a heavy step forward, gritting his teeth, “I don’t—I’m not—You can’t keep _doing_ this.”

Dean gets the sinking feeling he may have misread the entire situation. Cas said he had an _exquisite mouth_ , right? Is this just another Cas thing—where he doesn’t understand the implications? He takes a step backward, then another. Apparently there _is_ something to be afraid of here.

Cas stalks forward. “You _know_ what you’re doing. _You know._ But I’m not some…some _waitress_ ,” he spits, “to be played with.” He jabs a finger at Dean, backs him into the kitchenette counter. “You should show me some respect.”

Dean swallows hard, a memory passing through him. The throbbing glow of Cas’s eyes has him so mesmerized he can barely focus on what he’s saying. And he’s gone almost completely red in his uncertainty if he’s being rejected outright. “I’m not—Cas, I’m not trying to—”

“You think you can just—just—” Cas lets out a frustrated growl, grabs his t-shirt by the chest and shoves him. Dean, losing his balance against the counter, grabs Cas’s arm to steady himself, which of course throws Cas further into a rage. He flaps his arm, trying to lose Dean’s grip. “I was _fine_ until you—” Cas rumbles and takes a swing.

It lands in Dean’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He doubles over, waving a fist haphazardly in Cas’s general direction. “Man, I’m not—Can you just fucking chill?” he breathes once he gets his bearings.

“I _was_ chill! This was me, _chill_ , Dean!” he shrieks, irony escaping him. “You chill! You chill with your—your _mouth_!”

Dean wants to laugh. But when he takes a step towards Cas, Cas takes another swing. He manages to dodge, and throws his own fist into Cas’s cinderblock chest. He has to shake his hand out for a second. 

Cas takes the opportunity to land another blow to Dean’s ribs, which sends him stumbling for a moment before he growls lowly and charges back, stooping to get leverage. He leads with his shoulder into Cas’s chest, one hand grabbing his bicep, the other gripping into his ribcage. Cas staggers backwards frantically, Dean’s heavy weight forcing him back. He knocks into the TV stand, trying to strike Dean in the chaos, to free himself. The element of surprise has always been one of Dean’s favorite weapons.

They land against a wall, plastic leaves from a fake plant crowding next to them. Dean leans his forearm across Cas’s chest, still holding his other arm. They stop they for a moment to catch their breath. Cas’s eyes are gleaming dark with fury. Dean tries again to say _something_ with a look, since he can’t come up with the right words.

Then Cas watches as Dean’s gaze falls to his lips. He swallows. Dean looks back up, tongue swiping across his bottom lip. Something shivers through Cas and the fury transforms.  
  
“I’m not _playing_ with you, Cas,” he says hoarsely. “I’m trying to _tell_ you. You can’t—you can’t tell me you don’t…want to…” he trails off, looking back down to Cas’s lips.

Cas scoffs with disbelief and whispers, “Of course I want to. But you don’t—”

Dean brings his eyes back up to Cas’s. He watches the understanding finally wash through them.

“I might,” Dean swallows, “want to, too.”


	10. Chapter 10

Dean’s never had much luck. Except bad luck, or cursed luck that bites him in the ass. So when he hears the beep and click of the motel door at the exact moment he’s about to lean in and kiss Cas, like, _really_ kiss him, he’s not exactly surprised.

Sam swings the door open and freezes. Dean tries to cause him psychic damage by thinking the word _cockblock_ over and over.

“Uh…everything okay in here?” Sam asks. Dean takes a step back, dropping his hands. Cas lets out a breath.   
  
“Yeah,” Dean says, swallowing, “We’re fine.”

“You….sure?” Sam asks skeptically. They both turn to him.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says at the exact same time Cas says, “We were fighting.”

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head, clarifies, “We _were_ fighting. Now we’re fine.”

Eileen surveys the whole scene, the effort to suppress a laugh pulling her mouth in all manner of directions. She pulls her phone out and steps into the room, holding it out to Cas.

“Any of this familiar to you?” she asks.

He pores over the disturbing photos of mutilated cow corpses. There are symbols carved into their flesh, but even more curious is that the bodies are arranged in a circle in the field. A scorch mark spreads in the grass in the center.

“It’s a summoning ritual,” he mutters, taking the phone in his hand to examine more closely. “I don’t think it…worked, though. The burn pattern is limited to the center but, a ritual like this, it’s used for…very powerful beings. Much larger…”

He hands the phone back to Eileen and paces, wondering if this is related to their current dilemma or just random supernatural bullshit. “I’ll need to see it in person to—”

“Well we also have a lead,” Sam adds hopefully, “from the farmer.”

\--

The impala rolls to a stop opposite the street of the crime scene. Yellow caution tape twists around a storefront with a door made mostly of cardboard.

“Glitterfeather’s Magical Emporium?” Dean asks, incredulous. “That’s the store’s name?”

“Apparently there was a break-in, someone was taken to the hospital,” Sam explains, disregarding Dean’s continued mugging. “The same night the cows got carved. Joseph thought they were connected, he kept—”

“Joseph?” Dean asks.

“The farmer. He said there was—”

“Farmer Joe? Really?”  
  
“Yeah, Dean. The farmer’s name is Joe. Can you focus?” Sam scolds, shaking his head. Dean _can’t_ focus. He keeps trying to see how Cas is doing in the back seat but any time he actually looks up to make eye contact, Dean looks instinctively away. “He said he saw the owner in town the day of the cow carvings and she was acting strange.”  
  
“Strange?” Cas asks, turning his attention back from the storefront.

“Rude,” Eileen answers. Then she admits, “He said she looked ‘possessed.’”

“Does Farmer Joe know what possession looks like?” Dean asks.

“He didn’t say anything about black eyes or sulfur, so, no, we’re not sure on that,” Sam replies. “But it’s worth an investigation. We can go to the hospital and see what the victim has to say after we check out the store.”

“Um…” Eileen says, pointing to a window above the storefront glowing with red light. “Is that…something?”

The light pulses a few times before disappearing.   
  
Dean’s the first out of the car, jogging over to the door. The rest follow as he punches his hand through the cardboard and unlocks the door, quickly ducking inside. It’s a small store with two tight aisles filled with herbs and crystals and knick knacks. But there’s no time to take in the minute details. Dean runs to the back, searching for stairs. Instead he ends up hurtling through a door to the outside, behind the building. A crash and a frustrated yelp echo out from above. Sam barges through the door, notices the fire escape, and takes a massive running leap to grab the ladder and pull it down. Eileen is thoroughly impressed.

Sam ambles up the steps with Dean trailing close behind, followed by Eileen and Cas. Once on the landing, Sam and Dean stay ducked beneath the window, their guns already out of their waistbands. Inside, a woman huddles over a table with a large stone bowl. It looks like any other apartment, except for the papers, books, branches, bottles, crystals, and other bizarre detritus littered on the floor around the room. A wisp of smoke crawls out from the bowl as she drops in it something too small to see. Her nearly floor-length curly black hair bounces slightly around her when she lets out another frustrated shout.

Dean, perpetual man of action and impatience, gives a meaningful nod to Sam before jumping up, kicking through the glass with his boot, and throwing himself through the window into a roll and crouch. He has his gun aimed before the woman can run out of the room.

“Hi sweetheart,” Dean purrs cooly. He hopes Cas is watching. “I wouldn’t go anywhere just yet. We got some questions for you.”

Sam thrusts himself through the window, avoiding the broken glass as much as he can, his gun raised as well. The woman stands alert and looks between the two of them and the window where Eileen and Cas are now visible.

“You again,” she sneers. Her dark eyes dart around. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Well you’re gonna make time. Cause we’re the ones with the guns. And we need answers.” Dean takes a step forward. She folds her arms, unimpressed.

“You think guns can kill me?” she asks with a smirk.

“Actually, yeah,” Dean says. “See we been doing this a long time. We got silver bullets, demon-killing bullets, witch-killing bullets,” he notices her tic just slightly at that, “devil’s trap bullets, brass bullets, salt bullets—”

“We got a lot of bullets,” Sam cuts him off.

“And a lot of questions,” Eileen adds, stepping down into the room. Cas follows behind her, angel blade ready in his tensed hand.

“What the fuck is a witch-killing bullet? That’s the stupidest…” She eyes the counter for blunt objects behind her as Dean takes a few more steps forward.

“I wouldn’t,” he says. 

“I’m going to rip your liver out and eat it while you watch,” she hisses.

“Don’t flirt with me,” Dean sneers. “Who are you? What are you doing here? What did you do with those cows?”

She throws her head back in a cackle. Cas stalks forward, blade extended, but Dean reaches his arm out to hold him back.

“Who were you summoning?” Cas growls. She rolls her neck and gives Cas a pitying look.

“Isn’t that cute? How’s that binding spell working out for you?”

Cas struggles rabidly against Dean’s hand, which is now clutching him by the shoulder. But then there’s a thunderous crack and Dean’s thrown in the air, crashing into a bookcase. Something pops in his shoulder at the same moment a thick book drops onto his skull and he loses track of his hands.

A shot rings out, but when Dean opens his eyes, Sam and Eileen are also clambering on the floor on the other side of the room. Cas is splayed out across the table, struggling at his neck with one hand. The woman has her hand outstretched, choking him from across the room. Dean scrambles through the piles of books for the gun.

Then, like a miracle, Gabriel appears in the center of the room.

“Damnit, how did you guys find her first?” he whines, folding his arms. “We literally flew here.”

The woman straightens with obvious alarm. Then Kali appears and grabs her arms from behind, a rope of red light wrapping around her entire body.

“You _bitch_ ,” the woman roars over her shoulder. Cas falls limp on the table, wheezing.  
  
“What did you do to Durga?” Kali shoots heat through her palms, ripping a shriek out of the woman. Gabriel pushes the point of his blade against her stomach.

“You should answer her,” he glowers.

She laughs again from the back of her throat. Gabriel lands a blow across her face, then another. “I’m just helping her,” she spits blood onto the floor, “find her true potential.”

“You stupid, arrogant worm,” Gabriel jeers. “You don’t even know how fucked you are.”

Kali sends flames down her arms, tearing out another shriek. “I don’t care what your reasoning is, witch, I am the _destroyer_ ,” she hisses, “and I will protect my sister. Where. Is. She?”

The witch howls as flames snake out from the bindings, licking up at her face. “I don’t know!” she screams, finally. “I’ve been summoning her and she’s not here!”

Kali narrows her eyes and shares a look with Gabriel. He nods gravely. Then Kali removes one hand, clamps it over the witch’s mouth, and sends fire rushing through. Her muffled scream dissipates as she burns black from the inside out, crumbling into ash.

“Holy fucking shit,” Dean breathes, watching the ash float to the floor. He feels Cas relax against his arm and when he looks up, Cas has his palms out in front of him, blue light sparking in his hands. He looks up at Dean with palpable relief. They share thick smiles as Cas reaches up to Dean’s hand—still holding up the gun—and lets his grace curl out over the cuts from the glass, to heal him.

_If only there weren’t an audience_ , Dean thinks. It must be written on his face, the way it’s written on Cas’s, too.

\--

“We have to find her,” Kali says as the raw energy recedes into her arms. Gabriel nods, grabs her hand, and the two of them fuck off again.

“You got to be kidding me,” Sam huffs. “What the hell just happened? Who was that? What did she do to Durga? And what about all the rakshasa? Are they still a problem?”

“This is very unsatisfying,” Eileen remarks, shaking her head. “No narrative closure.”

“Ugh, I get why you two are together,” Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. “Look, Cas is better so who cares who that was! Another witch bites the dust.”  
  
Cas demonstrates by showing his glowing palms, a big grin on his face. “I feel much better. I’ll be right back.”

Cas disappears. Dean pouts, just a tiny bit.

“Okay,” Sam shrugs. “So, uh…I guess we head back to Kansas? Do some research on how to find Durga before she unearths more spirits?”

“Or…You guys wanna go to a bar or something?” Dean asks. He’s not particularly looking forward to another 6 hour drive home. 

Sam and Eileen both squint at him.

“A bar?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, you know. Celebrate a win?” Dean mumbles, chewing his lips.

“It’s like…3 pm,” Eileen notes.

“I’m back,” Cas announces from the side of the room. He strides over to Dean, holding out a pastry in a napkin. “I brought you an empanada.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and accepts the unexpected gift. He sniffs it, then beams. “Is this pie? See, this is what I’m talking about!”

Cas turns to Sam and Eileen and pulls out two keychains from his pocket. “I understand it is customary to bring gifts when one travels for leisure.”

Sam turns the trinket over in his hands. It’s a tiny glass-beaded rope about the width of a pencil, with a metal ring on the end. It’s intricately, geometrically patterned. He cannot imagine a world in which he uses it, but still, the gesture makes him smile. “Thanks, Cas.”  
  
Dean moans around a mouthful of dough and filling. “Oh my god, what’s in this?” He takes another bite and his eyes roll back into his head.

“Guava,” Cas grins. “From Peru.”

“For the record, I like pie, too,” Eileen signs, eyeing the two of them. She slips the keychain in her pocket. “But this is nice, Cas, thank you.”

\--

The sun is pulling pink and orange down to the horizon. Dean’s going about twenty over the speed limit, chewing his lip. Next to him, Cas watches the trees whip by. Sam’s in the backseat with headphones in, fiddling with his phone, and Eileen’s typing quietly on a laptop. Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” drifts out of the player and Dean is almost dancing with it. He’s bobbing his head and tapping one hand on the wheel, one on his thigh. He’s pretty sure he’s gonna start tasting blood soon if he doesn’t calm down. He tenses his hand into a fist, punches himself lightly in the thigh.

Dean can feel it like a heat lamp when Cas turns to look at him. He chances a glance. Cas is biting his lip and pursing at the same time, like he’s keeping a secret. Or about to pull a prank. Which would be concerning for Dean, if Cas’s eyes weren’t filled with such fondness that he can’t help but relax.   
  
“What?” Dean asks, smirking too. He lets his tense hand unfurl and sit in the seat between them.

“Nothing,” Cas says, shaking his head.

Dean has to keep glancing back between him and the road. “What?” He asks again, insistent.

Cas looks out the windshield at the road stretching in front of them. Trees and telephone poles dot the fields rushing by either side. Orange bleeds into red in the sky. Robert Plant’s voice moans and wails through a static peppered with percussive beats before a guitar tears back in. Dean notices the warm glow reflecting from the sunset across Cas’s skin. He has the distinct thought: _golden_ _honey_. He does not lock it away. He might be done locking anything away.

He turns his gaze back to the road, feeling heat creep up his neck and across his cheeks, as his fingers slide across the leather seat to bump into Cas’s, just barely.

Cas looks down at their hands, then up at Dean’s face. Dean’s still smirking, but he just keeps staring down the road, occasionally glancing in the rearview. Heart thudding suddenly in his chest, Cas turns to watch the white lines ticking under the car the whole way home.

\--

They hear the crash deep within the bunker before the door is even open. Exchanging worried glances, the four of them descend towards the source of what’s now a rhythmic pounding with weapons drawn.

“Can’t we catch a break?” Dean mutters, stepping down from the stairs into the main room. The walls are shaking, and he watches a pen roll across the table haltingly.   
  
“What’s going on?” Eileen asks as the pen drops to the floor.

Dean leaves Sam to respond. He’s busy clearing the hall before making his way down to the dungeon, each couple of steps punctuated by a sharp crack and a colossal vibration threatening to fracture the concrete foundation.

Once he makes it to the door, he pauses, takes a breath. Another crack of thunder. The hanging light swings with the tremors, throwing shadows shaking around the room. Cas rounds the corner, blade drawn. He makes eye contact as Dean pulls the hatch door open.

In the chair is Durga again. She’s glistening with sweat, hair half plastered to her, half like a bird’s nest shaking around her head with each convulsion. Her wrists are bloody where she’s struggled against the cuffs locking her in place. She doesn’t notice the door opening as she screams hoarsely, eyes pinched shut in concentration.

As the shout trails into a whimper, her head lolls and she opens her eyes, jerking suddenly when startled by the company. She shimmers invisible almost instinctively, before reappearing.

“Oh,” Dean says, nodding slowly. “So you been here the whole time, then.”

“Let me out,” she demands, her voice shredded and low and all around him.

“Gabriel, Durga is here,” Cas says, eyes towards the ceiling, from across the room, “at the bunker.”

“Damn!” Gabriel exclaims, inside the dungeon already. “How did you do that? I gotta hand it to you guys, you just keep on surprising.”

“Let me out!” Durga howls again, shaking the room. A fissure in the wall spreads further towards the floor.

Kali appears behind Dean, startling him as she maneuvers around him to stand tall in the doorway facing her sister. She takes a tentative step forward, then another.

“Durga?” she asks. Everything goes very still, like the building itself is holding its breath.

“Kali,” Durga states. She lets out a puff of air, deflating.

“Is it…you?” Kali asks softly, stepping closer. She reaches an arm out but leaves it hovering in the air. Durga eyes Kali’s hand, then looks down at her feet still cuffed to the metal chair. She nods.

“What happened?” Kali’s head tilts like a dog hearing something far off. “Did she…were you…”

“Mira, she…I think it was a spell, but I…I remember. It was me…” she trails off, tears or sweat rolling down her face. “Is she…”

“She’s dead,” Gabriel declares when Kali looks away and bites down.

Something like a wail rips out of Durga’s throat. Her body convulses as her head hangs, chin touching her chest, tears dropping into her hair and lap. Kali finally reaches out, places a hand on Durga’s forearm, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

Dean cringes from the doorway, not understanding the details, just knowing this is maybe not something he should witness. He makes tentative eye contact with Cas over his shoulder, and notes Sam and Eileen watching from by the stairs.

Kali’s hand slips down to the metal cuffs and glows hot red. The light travels through her fingertips and into the carved symbols and markings before the link unclasps and Durga can bring her hand up to her mouth to hide her sobs.   
  
“I know,” Durga says as Kali undoes the other clasps. “I know you had to.”  
  
“Doesn’t make it easier,” she notes.

\--

“So, let me get this straight,” Dean leans back in his chair at the map table. “The goddess falls in love with a witch, who mindwhammies her into raising a bunch of demons so that they can build an army?”

“No, the rakshasa were a side effect of the love spell,” Sam corrects.

“ _No_ ,” Gabriel pinches his nose. “The rakshasa were bred to fulfill a prophecy. The witch wanted Durga’s power, so she seduced her. We assume—they might’ve been in love first, actually. Unclear on that. But then she seemed to control Durga, and tried to gain even more power.”

“Great, so is Durga gonna want revenge now?” Dean asks. “Since you guys killed her psycho witch girlfriend or whatever?”

“I don’t think so,” Gabriel says gravely. “She was…Let’s say she seems…repentant. Kali’s keeping an eye on her now. I think we can handle it from here.”

“So,” Dean lets out a breath, checks his watch without actually registering the time. “Okay. Great. It’s over.”  
  
“Yeah. I think so,” Gabriel nods. The five of them sit in silence for a minute, looking around at one another and nodding. Dean makes eye contact with everyone at least twice.

After it becomes unbearable, Dean slaps the table and stands. “So uh…time to turn in then.”

“Right,” Sam coughs, standing as well, along with Eileen, who looks like she’s about to fall asleep on her feet. “Well, uh, good job everyone.”  
  
“And goodnight,” Eileen signs lazily as they exit.

Dean looks over at Cas still standing by the doorway. There’s a few locks of hair sticking up, a bit windswept, but otherwise he looks pristine. He’s standing with his arms at his sides, palms up, as if to say, _Well?_

Dean takes a few steps forward, something bubbling in the bottom of his throat, then stops a foot away.

“Um,” he says forcefully, not taking his eyes off Cas.

Gabriel pops a hand to his hip. “What, you don’t mind if I watch, do ya?”

“Fuck _off_ , Gabriel,” Dean growls.

“Fine, party pooper.” Gabriel folds his arms and with sickeningly sweet sarcasm, he says, “I’m just so proud of you for accepting who you really are. And I want you to know: _it gets better._ ” Then he mercifully fucks off before Dean can get the knife from his waistband out and throw it directly into his goddamn skull.

Dean takes another step so that he’s inches from Cas’s face. He doesn’t care if Gabriel knows somehow. He doesn’t even check over his shoulder to make sure everyone is gone.   
  
“Hey,” he says softly, raising his hand to reach for Cas’s arm. He hesitates with his hand hovering in the air as Cas just looks at him with wide eyes. Dean can almost hear Cas’s heart thumping, or maybe he’s just projecting.

“Hello,” Cas says quietly, with a hint of confusion. He notes Dean’s suspended hand from the corner of his eye but doesn’t break his gaze from Dean’s. He’s spent the last decade pretending that this could never happen, not the way he wanted. But then this morning, Dean a solid weight against him, and _that look_. This one. The one he has right now. It’s nervous and determined and hungry.

Still, to believe it is another thing. If he lets himself believe it, he might never recover. Especially if it’s not true—if Dean is just toying with him, if whatever is happening is just a thing that happens, the way one-night-stands with bartenders and waitresses happen and then never happen again.

But then Dean, finally, lifts his hand further and brings it softly to Cas’s neck, thumb grazing the hinge of his jaw. Cas swallows thickly. Dean leans in, then stops to ask with a low whisper, “Is uh…is this okay?”

Cas’s mouth falls open but he can’t summon a single word so he just nods slightly, unable to glean anything but desire from Dean’s face. Even if it doesn’t end up exactly how he wants, Cas thinks this might be his only chance.

Dean closes his eyes and brushes their lips together, gentle and warm. The air is pulled out of Cas like a thread. He reaches for Dean’s bicep to steady himself, falling back against the doorframe. Dean tilts Cas’s head with his callused hand and slowly licks into his mouth, their tongues pushing rhythmically together. The lights above them flicker.

Dean pulls away suddenly and looks around, then chuckles, “Was that you?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”  
  
“It’s okay,” Dean breathes against Cas’s mouth. He leans his whole body in, grabs Cas’s shoulder, presses him against the doorframe and kisses him again, before pulling back. “Though if that’s just what happens when we make out…” he trails off, feeling Cas’s heaving breaths against his own chest. “I’m kinda scared of what comes next.”

“What…comes next?” Cas asks, searching his eyes.

_You, hopefully,_ Dean thinks, _then me._ Instead he lets out a breathy, nervous laugh. “I mean…you know.”

Cas does not know. What he does know is that, right now, questioning anything too much might cause Dean to run off, and, right now, he really, _really_ doesn’t want him to do that. So he leans up again and kisses him, this time with intention and heat.

Cas grabs Dean securely by the hips, pressing his thumbs in. He leans with such force that Dean takes two steps back and knocks into the other end of the doorframe. And Dean wants to laugh at that, the little bounce of him off the wall, but Cas shifts his leg and presses into him and instead a small moan escapes the back of his throat and vibrates into Cas’s mouth. Dean brings his hand up to the back of Cas’s head to shuffle through his hair, and now Dean can feel Cas hardening against his leg, just like that. The realization sends a rush of his own blood, to match.

“Wait,” he pulls back an inch to whisper, “let’s go to my room.”


	11. Chapter 11

Once Dean closes the door behind him, however, Cas turns around with apparent anger. “Dean, I need to know what…” he trails off.   
  
“What…?” Dean asks, trying to hide being taken aback.

“What do you feel?” Cas asks finally, shaking his hands.

“Jesus.” Dean looks into the distance. “Are you kidding me?”

“No!” Cas growls. “I have had a difficult time with the development of emotions. They are not easy to understand if you’re not born with them, and I don’t know what is typical to feel. I need to know if what I feel is what you feel, before we…”

“First of all,” Dean holds a finger in the air insolently, “they’re not easy to understand even if you _are_ born with them.” Cas rolls his eyes. “Second,” Dean takes a step forward, raises his hand to tug on the end of Cas’s tie, “I cannot _believe_ we have to do the chick flick thing right now—”

“Don’t—”

“ _Third_ ,” Dean continues, “You need to know if what _you_ feel is what I feel? What do _you_ feel?” He raises his hand to Cas’s neck, thumb rubbing behind his ear.

“I…I asked first,” Cas says, standing still. 

Dean tries to hide his disappointment at the turn of the mood, but Cas is looking for it. Cas is in fact catastrophizing about having ruined his only chance to have sex with the love of his eons-long life, while simultaneously knowing that he’s not emotionally prepared to be eventually rejected so it’s better if he just stops it before it starts anyway.

“Dean…you have to know.” Cas looks down at his hands dumbly. He pauses so long Dean’s not sure he’ll keep going, but then he sighs, says, “I…I literally fell. For you.” He struggles around each word, gritting his teeth. Dean stills his thumb as a wave of heat flushes under his palm. “I didn’t feel anything for millennia…and then I met you.”

“That was a long time ago,” Dean chokes out, mouth suddenly dry. He drops his hand. “A lot of stuff’s happened since then.”

Cas rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Dean, you are…”  
  
“If you say predictable, I’m gonna punch you,” Dean mutters despite his racing heart.

Cas looks back up at him, his eyes glassy and expansive. “You’re the reason I am who I am. I’m free—I have free will, because I chose to follow you, and I…I changed. For the better. I’ll never…” he swallows, shakes his head. “Dean, I’ll never recover from my desire for you.”

Dean is not aware that he’s grinning. He in fact feels mostly scared, like he’s suddenly realizing there’s been something sitting in his peripheral vision for years, and he’s just now seeing its outline. “Cas,” is all he says, before leaning in to kiss him again, this time slow and purposeful and tender.

Cas kisses him back, just in case it is his last chance. He brings his hands up to Dean’s chest, pressing firmly into the muscle, while Dean pushes insistently, gripping the back of his head. They start to shuffle backwards, until Cas bumps into the desk, jolting him enough to pull away.

“Dean,” he sighs. Dean loosens his grip and brings his hands to rest on Cas’s shoulders. He gives him one small shake, looking back and forth between his eyes.

“Cas,” he breathes. “I have never in my life felt about _anyone_ …the way I feel about you. Not a woman, no one….Hell, I thought—I thought I was straight. Like, I really thought it. It seemed true.” He shakes his head. “But I guess it doesn’t matter. Because…because it’s you.”

Cas lets out a puff of air, almost laughing in disbelief.

“You mean too much to me,” Dean continues. “We’ve been through so much. And I’m not—I won’t—I’m not good with words, Cas, you know that. I’m sorry it took me so long to see it. I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes for a moment, pained. “I just...” He gestures between the two of them. “This? It’s…it’s real.”

Something clicks softly in the back of Cas’s mind. Relief washes through him so visibly Dean chokes back a laugh.

“I won’t lie and say I know what I want, like, in general,” Dean says as he rubs his hand over the back of Cas’s neck. His voice drops an octave, “But I know what I want right now, and I thought we could, you know…make the rest up as we go.”

So that’s it. Cas crashes into Dean, kissing him with enough fervor to knock Dean on his heels. He’s grabbing at his shirt, maneuvering him back and around until his knees hit the bed. Dean loses his balance and falls—is possibly pushed—backwards, propping himself on his elbows to watch as Cas hovers over him, lips glistening in the gold lamp light, until he brings a knee to either side of Dean’s hips, to straddle him.

“Guess we’re done with the talking part,” Dean mutters as Cas shoves his hands under his soft t-shirt.

“Shut up,” Cas mutters back, pushing the hem up with his thumbs, skating his hands up over Dean’s chest to pull the shirt over his head. “I only needed to confirm that you’re as emotionally compromised as I am,” he drops the shirt on the floor, “and now that I know, I’d like to continue to engage in our previous activities which seemed to be leading to sexual intercourse.”

“ _Emotionally compromised_? Wow, Cas, talk dirty to me,” he grins, fumbling through the layers of coat, suit jacket, tie, shirt. He manages to get ahold of the tie and yanks it towards him, to bring Cas’s mouth closer. Cas looks down at him with heavy lids, and when he speaks his breath puffs hot against Dean’s lips.  
  
“I long to know the feeling of your exquisite mouth on my aching cock,” Cas murmurs, kissing him. Dean freezes, his eyes wide. Cas opens his eyes and pulls back an inch.   
  
“Was that not…talking dirty?”

“Jesus!” Dean feels laughter bubbling up and does little to stop it. “Where the hell did you learn that?”  
  
“I…did some research,” Cas looks around for a second, hovering nervously over Dean with his hands on either side of his head. He doesn’t mean to mirror Dean’s laugh, but his mouth hitches up at either end anyway.   
  
“On what, exactly? Fifty shades of angel?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing, nevermind. Here,” Dean pulls him back with another kiss. He palms along Cas’s back while kicking off his shoes, then, breaking away, he says, “Here,” again, and wiggles until Cas flips onto the bed. Dean fumbles through removing his coat, suit jacket, tie, and shirt all while mouthing along his jaw, until he can finally let his weight fall to his elbow to close the space between them and feel the warmth of Cas’s bare skin.

\--

Cas has had a lot of experiences. He’s like millions of years old. He’s taken vessels before, and he’s had sex even. But this—Dean, his mischievous smirk inches away, his callused hand roaming down the expanse of skin over his ribs, down to the softness of his stomach, around the protruding edge of hip bone. It’s overpowering.

And Dean’s heart is racing so hard it almost hurts. He’s had a lot of _experiences_ , too. Like a lot. He’s not by any means an amateur. He thumbs around the hem of Cas’s pants while opening his mouth with a kiss, pushing his tongue in. His fingers fumble with the button. This should all be familiar—he’s done this hundreds of times. With women.

But when he pulls the pants down with both hands, Cas arching from his shoulders to assist, Dean’s confronted with the reality of an erection beneath the thin cotton boxers Cas is wearing. And he’s hard, too, and he’s already accepted that he’s like, kinda gay, so it shouldn’t trip him up at all, and yet.

Cas pushes himself up on his elbows to watch Dean peel the pants off and toss them on the floor, only to sit on his knees in between Cas’s legs, and stare. Almost absent-mindedly, Dean palms at his own dick in his jeans, adjusting and indulging himself at the same time, before thumbing open his own fly. Cas watches intensely as he shuffles out of his jeans, standing briefly to get them past his knees, before returning to the bed, eyes rolling over the entirety of Cas’s body in front of him. He slips one finger in the waistband of Cas’s underwear and pauses.

“Is it…is something wrong?” Cas asks when Dean doesn’t move.

“No, I,” Dean breathes, looking back up at Cas. “I just…I’ve never done this before. With a guy.”

“Me neither,” Cas says blankly.

_Jesus_. Dean erupts with laughter. He falls forward to collapse, leaning his head on Cas’s shoulder for a minute. The absurdity of it all is crashing into him. Is this really happening? He’s doing this? With Cas?

Cas brings a hand to Dean’s back, over his shoulder blade, and leans his cheek to the back of Dean’s head, breathes in the scent of his shampoo. He can’t help the smile that pulls across his face, and thinks about how strange it is to experience emotions and physical sensations in a feedback loop, one informing the other.

“Okay,” Dean breathes over Cas’s mouth. He presses into him, feeling the hard shape and rolling his hips against it, before locking their mouths in another kiss. He bites Cas’s bottom lip into his mouth and runs a hand from the back of his head, around his neck, down his pulsing torso, thumbing over his hips, pushing his hand under the fabric and tentatively sweeping over his dick. Cas gasps into Dean’s mouth and digs his fingers in to his back, which is exactly the encouragement Dean needs, while scrambling with his other hand down to Dean’s hips, trying to pull his boxers off.

The air in the room palpitates, edges blurred entirely, and the two of them fumble together, hearts racing, laughter wobbling into shocked gasps. When Dean finally pushes Cas’s underwear down and, almost so fast so as to not think about it anymore, reels back onto his knees to slip the warm head in his mouth, Cas grabs fistfuls of sheets in either hand and lets out a moan so low and unhinged that Dean feels his own cock twitch in his boxers.   
  
The solid weight in his mouth is an unexpected turn on. It shouldn’t be, but everything is somehow unexpected at this point. They’ve entered the space of discovery. So he gently bobs his head, one hand on Cas’s thigh, the other reaching to pull himself out of his own underwear.

Cas tries to keep his eyes open, to watch the movement of Dean’s tongue flicking out of his exquisite mouth and along the length of his dick, but the sensations keep drawing his eyes closed. And when he notices the movement of Dean’s hand, stroking himself to the same rhythm, and Dean’s eyes cast upward to meet his own, he feels a wave of static over his whole body.   
  
“Oh, oh,” he lets out, reaching for the back of Dean’s head. “Dean, I’m—Dean—”

And with that Cas comes hot and forcefully and _loudly_ , which Dean was theoretically ready for but in practice Cas yanks on his hair, and the bulb in the lamp explodes, and Dean chokes back a cough, trying to keep going until Cas is done, come spilling out of his mouth and all over Cas’s dick. Cas is panting, his voice falling out of him against his will, when Dean leans back up and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, swallowing.

_First time for everything_ , Dean thinks simply. He’s grinning when Cas finally opens his eyes, his breath evening out.   
  
“Holy shit,” he laughs, still stroking himself lazily. “Gonna need to keep the lights off next time.”

The phrase _next time_ thumps heavily in Cas’s chest, but he just rolls his eyes, ready to respond with sarcasm—until he catches the movement of Dean’s hand. “I’d like to…” he trails off, staring.

“What, Cas?” Dean asks pompously, maneuvering Cas’s legs so that he can straddle him instead, before leaning down on one arm to lick around Cas’s neck. Having made Cas come in a matter of minutes has him smug again, feeling as though he’s a master teaching a novice. That is until Cas grabs his ass with one hand, his back with the other, and flips him unceremoniously onto his back.

“I’d like to taste you,” Cas murmurs into Dean’s ear before licking. And now Dean’s shuddering like teen virgin. It’s not like he hasn’t heard that before, but it was usually a mediocre performance by a complete stranger. Usually one that couldn’t toss him around like a beachball. Which worked for him at the time, but now that he can feel the very un-performative desire in Cas, like he’s deeply interested in the details of Dean’s sweat and come on his tongue—and maybe has been for years—Dean’s not that sure he’ll ever fuck another stranger again.

“Fuck, dude,” Dean lets go of himself and shuffles off his boxers clumsily while Cas mouths down around his nipples and along the curve of his ribs. He takes Dean’s cock firmly in his hand and licks at the head, experimentally, like a popsicle. He rubs his tongue over the tip, brows knitted in concentration, before lolling his tongue around in circles. Dean watches with shallow breathes, bringing a hand to the side of Cas’s face, so that when Cas finally allows the whole length in his mouth, Dean thumbs the outline of his dick through his cheek.

Which means, despite his extensive sexual history, and despite his continued insistence that he can last for hours, this is how Dean comes their first time: Cas pressing both hips firmly into the mattress with his hands, lapping hungrily, moaning vibrations around his cock; Dean, one hand on Cas’s cheek, the other a fist in Cas’s hair, emitting light whimpers he will misremember as deep, manly groans.

Cas, unprepared but so enthusiastic about the experience, keeps sucking through the convulsions, spit and come rolling down his chin, until Dean is nearly entirely soft in his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas,” Dean breathes, once he can. He lay still with his eyes closed for a second, his hands falling from Cas’s head when he releases his dick and leans back on his knees.   
  
“Was that…” Cas asks, trailing off nervously. Dean opens his eyes and looks down his nose at Cas. He’s kneeling between Dean’s legs, naked and waiting, face open.

“Cas, that was…” Dean reaches for Cas’s wrist to pull him over top of him. When he settles, Dean pushes a hand through Cas’s hair and kisses him, slowly and resolutely. “I’m not sure I’ll ever recover,” he whispers with a laugh.

Cas’s face clears into a grin. He laughs, too, as he collapses his weight into Dean. His head falls to the pillow and he mumbles into it: “Good.”

\--

Dean wakes with his hand tangled in Cas’s hair. His head is tucked into his shoulder, mouth open against Dean’s pec, one hand laying lazily across his hip. Dean cards through the hair on the back of his head slowly as consciousness seeps into him.

“Dean,” Cas mumbles without opening his eyes.

“Cas,” Dean smiles into his hair.

“What time is it?” Cas’s breath puffs warmly across his cool skin. His hand at Dean’s hip comes alive, stroking gently.

“Ugh,” Dean groans. “I don’t want to know.” He’s not quite ready to leave the bubble of this encounter, to address reality. But he twists his neck anyway to see the clock blinking 8:15 AM.

“Shit,” Dean mutters as he falls back into the pillow. “It’s past eight.”

Cas hums affirmatively, starts to kiss with intention the skin his mouth is already pressed against. Dean keeps petting through Cas’s soft hair, ignoring the way Cas’s hand is starting to rove back to grab at his ass. Ok, not ignoring. In fact, paying very close attention to. In fact, he’s getting hard against Cas’s hip while Cas massages into his muscles.

But then, because this is Dean’s life, a knocking at the door. Dean and Cas freeze, both opening their eyes.

“Dean, you awake?” Sam asks through the door.

Cas pulls back to see how Dean’s reacting, which is of course with panic.

“Uh,” he shouts, “Don’t come in! I’m…naked?” It happens to be true. He does not mention the naked man in his arms.

There’s silence for a minute. Then Sam says, “Oh, uh. Okay. Well. Eileen got a message about a possible ghost near Salina, so…when you’re dressed. We’ll show you the details.”

“Cool, sounds good, bro!” Dean shouts and then cringes. _Bro?_

Cas narrows his eyes at Dean’s flustering as Sam’s heavy footsteps echo down the hall. Dean lets out a breath and rolls his eyes, turning to lay on his back.

“We should…” Dean waves his hand around the room. Cas understand he means _We should get dressed and never talk about this or do this ever again_ , so he nods with a sigh and rolls out of bed. He starts rooting through the discarded clothes, finding his crusted boxers and holding them up.

“Ew, wait,” Dean shakes his head as he gets over to his dresser, pulls out a clean pair. “Here,” he smiles, tossing them over.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says sincerely, as if this was a great favor.

“‘Course,” he shrugs, pulling his own pair on. “And uh…can we not um—maybe we don’t say anything about this…to Sam.”

Cas nods as he pulls his pants up over his hips and buttons them. “Yes, of course. Anything you wish. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Geez,” Dean puffs out a laugh. “You know, I mean…I just don’t want to deal with it yet, is all.”

“Yet.” Cas mulls this over.   
  
“Yeah, like, we can cross that bridge later.”  
  
“Later,” Cas repeats, nodding.

“Is there an echo in here?” Dean tilts his head, buttoning his jeans.   
  
“So you…you do want to…do this again,” Cas says slowly, inspecting Dean’s expressions.

Taken a bit by surprise, Dean raises an eyebrow as he holds a clean t-shirt in his hands without moving to put it on. “Didn’t we…talk about this last night?” He takes a few steps towards Cas. “I remember distinctly having to,” he swallows, reaches to place a hand softly on Cas’s ribs, “tell you that I’m…that I want…this.”

Cas looks down at Dean’s hand pressing firmly into his skin. “Sexual arousal can increase impulsiveness and impair decision-making abilities and I was withholding physical affection until you told me—”

“Cas,” Dean rolls his eyes. He drops the t-shirt to grab Cas’s jaw with both hands and angle him up, to meet his eyes. “Shut up.” Cas looks up cautiously and Dean gives him his signature sprawling grin, then leans in and kisses him.

“I’m sorry,” he says when he pulls back, looking deep into his blue eyes, “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. But I’m…I’m here now. If you’re here, with me.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says solemnly, eyes shining. “Always.”

“Great,” he beams. “Let’s make the rest up as we go.”


	12. Coda

Dean knows. He knows they should have just gone back to his room, or Cas’s, it doesn’t matter. It’s just that, the glow from the fridge illuminated Cas’s face in the dark of the kitchen and he looked clear and unburdened and sharp, like he does right before a fight, but instead of projecting cold violence, he was radiating heat and excitement. So Dean couldn’t help it, and he got carried away. That’s always been a problem for him.

“Shouldn’t we—maybe we—” Cas stutters. His breath is shallow and fast, sweat tingling as it forms around his hairline, down his chest.

Dean starts mouthing at Cas’s neck as he strokes a hand up his chest and to the back of his head, to still him. Cas’s breath is puffing hot against his forearm. He gulps as Dean continues down the front of his shirt, popping buttons open as he goes.

They almost made it to a room. It’s been a few weeks since they started whatever this is, and they’d been pretty good at keeping it discreet. But instead tonight Dean insisted on grabbing a water bottle from the kitchen, where Cas waited patiently until Dean backed him against the table, kissing and pressing into him until his knees wobbled.  
  
“We should—” Cas whispers, but breaks off into a gasp when Dean pushes him slightly onto the table with his crotch, licks at the space behind his jaw. He shuffles Cas’s coat and button-down off his shoulders in one move, feeling confident. The fabric catches at Cas’s elbows, restricting his arms. He’s got one hand holding the edge of the table to keep him from falling back, the other scrambling for Dean’s hip, catching a belt loop. Dean leans back up for another kiss while he shrugs off his own flannel and tosses it behind them on the table. He unbuckles his belt and Cas grabs for it, pulls it through the loops and drops it on the floor.

This was never part of the plan. But there was never really a plan, was there?

Dean hears the click of the light switch before he registers that the lights have turned on. He instantly scrambles away from Cas, who is, frankly, a scene to behold. He’s got his coat and shirt crowded around his elbows while he sits on the table with his legs spread open. His hair is shooting out and his lips are shining with spit. Dean’s not much better, stumbling over his own belt as he tries to put space between him and the table where his crumpled flannel still lies.

Sam is standing in the door way, mouth gaping. Blush creeps into his cheeks, ears, neck, entire face, oh god. Dean can practically hear the sparks shooting out of his ears as the gears in his head stutter and grind. He looks between the two of them before averting his gaze to the ceiling.

“I—I—I—” He can’t get a sentence out. “…water,” is all he manages, before his hand slides back down over the switch, covering them with darkness again. He backs out through the doorway and they can hear his heavy footsteps as he literally runs down the hall.

“Well, shit,” Dean’s laughter convulses through him for a solid minute. Cas thinks of that night all those years ago, when Dean said, _It's been a long time since I've laughed that hard._ His bald display of joy. The flip of his stomach then, and now. He breaks into laughter, feeling, primarily, relieved.

From down the hall, though muffled by a closed door, they can hear Eileen shriek, “I _KNEW_ IT!”


End file.
